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CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


1 


CIHM/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Micrureproductions  Institut  canadien  de  microreproductions  historiques 

1980 


Technical  Notes  /  Notes  techniques 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best 
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L'Institut  a  microfilmd  le  meilleur  exemplaire 
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D 


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D 


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n 
0 


Coloured  maps/ 

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Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 
Pages  ddcolordes.  tachet6es  ou  piqu6es 


D 


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Iv  I       Transparence 


D 


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Reliure  serr6  (peut  causer  de  I'ombre  ou 
de  la  distortion  le  long  de  la  marge 
int6rieure) 


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D 
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n 


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Pages  missing/ 
Des  pages  manquent 


Maps  missing/ 

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D 
D 


Plates  missing/ 

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The  images  appearing  here  are  the  best  quaiity 
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de  la  nettet*  de  I'exempialre  film*,  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche  shall 
contain  the  symbol  —^  (meaning  CONTINUED"), 
or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END"),  whichever 
applies. 


Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaTtra  sur  la  der- 
niire  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le  cas: 
le  symbols  -^  signifie  "A  SUIVRE",  le  symbols 
V  signifie  "FIN". 


The  original  copy  was  borrowed  from,  and 
filmed  with,  the  itind  consent  of  the  following 
institution: 

National  Library  of  Canada 


L'exemplaire  film6  fut  reproduit  grfice  A  la 
g*n6rositA  de  l'6tablissement  prAteur 
suivant  : 

BibliothAque  nationale  du  Canada 


IVIaps  or  plates  too  large  to  be  entirely  included 
in  one  exposure  are  filmed  beginning  in  the 
upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to  right  and  top  to 
bottom,  as  many  frames  as  required.  The 
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Les  cartes  ou  les  planches  trop  grandes  pour  dtre 
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partir  de  Tangle  sup6rieure  gauche,  de  gauche  d 
droite  et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  ndcess^ire.  Le  diagramme  suivant 
illustre  la  m6thode  : 


1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

^% 


-^--pi^e^)  yr//y///'^-^u///J,  ^^^/^A<^/ 


A 


^Jk 


§^r? 


Songs  from  B^ranger 


TRANSLATED  IN  THE  ORIGINAL  METRES  BY 


CRAVEN    LANGbTROfH    BHTTS 


NEW  YORK 

FREDERICK    A     STOKES    &    bKOlHER 

1888 


>/ 


i 


Copyright,  1888, 
By  Frederick  A.  Stokes  &  Brother. 


I 


TO  EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN, 

Unto  the  wide-viewed  en  tic,  Just  and  wise. 
Whose  word  ennobles  merit,  and  whose  praise 
Is  his,  who  strongly  grasps  the  toilsome  bays,— 
Unto  the  poet,  whose  regardful  eyes 
Vivify  truth,  and  beauty,  and  emprise,— 
Unto  the  man  of  action,  prompt  and  true, 
I  yield  this  grateful  tribute,  as  is  due 
To  a  clear  star  set  in  song's  hallowed  skies, 

lie,  like  my  poet,  loves  a  joyous  strain  ; 
Yet  oft  'tis  dashed  with  tears  of  tender  grace  ; 
He  is  as  wealthy-hearted;  like  warm  rain 
In  April,  his  songs  cheer  in  every  place 
Where  they  are  known;  starved  feelings  bloom  again. 
And  wintered  souls  unmask  a  smiling  face. 


i^ 


»■  "    -■.,  ,-.  •,  t 


. ' "  '-■'■■ 


Vv 


k  '    •   .     ■  »• 


'J  »- 


„■;  -  V  ■       " 


{, 


L 


llMliilBiiiillliliili 


iMi 


■ttiii^Miiiiiu 


CONTENTS. 


Preface     , 

Memoir     . 

The  King  of  Yvetot 
Le  roi  d*  Yvetot 

Charles  VII.     .        . 
Charles   VII.    . 

The  Beggars    . 
Les  gueux 

The  Two  Grenadiers 
Les  deux  grenadiers  . 

Light-hearted  Dick  . 
Roger  Bontemps 


PAOB 

15 

27 
27 

*** 
31 

34 
34 

39 
39 

44 
44 


CONTENTS, 


The  Gauls  and  Franks    . 
Les  Gai<lois  et  Francois    . 

The  Beginning  of  the  Voyage 

Les  Commencement  du   Voyage 

My  last  Song,  perhaps    . 
Ma  dernikre  Chanson  peut-iUe 

A  passing  round  the  Bauble  . 
Un  tour  de  Marotte 

Old  Clothing !   Old  Galoons  ! 
Vieux  habits  !     Vieux  galons  ! 

The  New  Diogenes 
Le  N'ouveau  Diogene 

A  Treatise  on  Politics     . 
Trait/  de  politique    . 

The  Education  of  Young  Ladies 
Le  Mucation  des  Demoiselles     . 

Thou  hateful  Spring ! 
Maudit  Printemps  i         ,        • 


PAGB 

48 
48 

53 
53 

55 
55 

58 

58 

6d 
62 

67 
67 

73 
73 

76 
76 

79 
79 


CONTENTS. 

7 

t                                                                                                                                                  PAGE 

The  broken  Fiddle 8i 

Le  violon  brisi 

• 

.      8l 

The  Holy  Alliance  of  Nations 

• 

.        .       85 

La  sainte  Alliance  des  Peuples 

• 

.        .      85 

The  Marquis  of  Carabas 

• 

89 

J^  Marquis  de  Carabas     . 

• 

• 

89 

If  a  little  Bird  I  were    . 

• 

• 

.      94 

St  j^tais  petit  oiseau 

• 

• 

•      94 

The  Plebeian   . 
Le  vilain  . 

• 
• 

»                   « 

>                   1 

98 
•      98 

My  Vocation    . 

■ 

»                   • 

• 

•      lOl 

Ma  vocation 

m 

1                   • 

• 

f      lOI 

My  Republic    . 

• 

• 

• 

•    104 

Ma  r/publique  . 

>                   < 

» 

• 

.    104 

The  Swallows  . 
Les  hirondelles 

• 
• 

• 
• 

• 
• 

.  107 
.    107 

Winter      . 
Lhiver 

• 
• 

• 
• 

• 
• 

•  no 
.    no 

CONTENTS. 


The  Hunter  and  the  Milkmaid 
Le  chasseur  et  la  laitUre 

The  Fifty  Crowns   . 
Les  cinquante  ^cus    . 

The  Young  Muse    . 
La  jeune  muse 

Farewell  to  the  Country 
Adieu  de  la  campagne 

The  Carrier  Pigeon 
Le  pigeon  mcssager   . 

The  Sylphide   . 
Le  sylphide 

The  Tailor  and  the  Fairy 
Le  tailleur  et  ha,  fie 

My  Boat  . 
Ma  nacelle 

The  Court  Poet 
La  Poete  d^  Cour 


PAGE 
114 
114 

117 
117 

121 
121 

124 
124 

128 
128 

132 

132 

135 
135 

139 

143 


Mjat 


CONTENTS. 

9 

FACB 

The  Birthday 147 

L  *  Anniversaire 

• 

.     147 

The  Imaginary  Voyage 

• 

.     149 

Le  voyage  imaginaire 

• 

.     149 

Lafayette  in  America 

• 

.     153 

Lafayette  en  Amirique 

• 

.     152 

The  Good  Old  Dame 

• 

.     155 

La  bonne  vieille 

1 

.     155 

Louis  XL 

> 

.     158 

Louis  XI, 

1 

.     15S 

The  Prisoner's  Fireside  . 

1 

163 

Le  feu  du  prisonnier 

1 

163 

The  Goddess    .        .       \ 

1 

166 

La  d/esse  .... 

1 

166 

The  Fourteenth  of  July  . 

• 

169 

Le  quatorze  Juillet  . 

« 

169 

The  Song  of  the  Cossack 

• 

173 

Le  chant  du  Cosaque 

« 

« 

173 

J» 


CONTENTS. 


Fifty  Years 

Cinquante  ans  , 

The  Refusal 
Le  re/us   , 

How  Fair  is  She  ! 
Qu^elle  est  jolie  / 

The  Restoration  of  Song 
Le  restoration  de  chanson 

Let 's  Haste  !   . 
Hatous-nous !    . 

Advice  to  the  Belgians   . 
Conseil  aux  Beiges    , 

9  •  9  •  • 

Recollections  of  Childhood 
Souvenirs  d'en/ance 

The  Old  Vagabond 
Le  vieux  vagabond  . 

The  Gipsies 
Les  hghemiens  , 


FAGB 

176 
176 

179 
179 

182 
182 

184 
184 

189 
189 

193 
193 

196 
196 

200 
200 

203 

203 


I. 


"'4 


CONTENTS. 

■XX 

PAOB 

The  People's  Reminiscences  ....     208 

Les  souvenirs  du  peuple   . 

.      203 

Poniatowski 

.        213 

Foniatoivski      . 

.         213 

The  Old  Corporal    , 

.         217 

Le  vieux  corporal     , 

.         217 

The  Garret       . 

.      222 

Le  grenier 

.     222 

The  Smugglers 

.      225 

Les  contrabandiers    , 

.      225 

Good-Night  1    . 

.      233 

Bon-soir  ! 

.      233 

My  Tomb 

.      236 

Mon  tombeau    . 

.      236 

My  Coat  . 

.      239 

Mon  habit 

.      239 

The  Poor  Woman 

.      242 

La  pauvre  femme 

.      242 

.1 


xa 


CONTENTS. 


The  Wandering  Jew 
Le  yuif  errant 

Farewell  Song! 
Adieu  chanson  I 

L Envoi    .         , 


pagj: 
245    V 
245 

250 
250 

254 


i\ 


3 


PREFACE.  ' 

'■'■  •-'"'>'     i.V. 

1  In  presenting  a  new  translation  of  the  songs  of 
Beranger  to  the  English-speaking  public,  the  trans- 
lator  deems  no  apology  necessary,  in  spite  of  the 
many  excellent  renderings  of  certain  of  the  chansons 
which  have  already  been  published  in  English  verse. 

';    He  was  actuated  principally  by  the  wish  to  add  his 

/  tribute  to,  and  to  a  certain  extent  to  identify  himself 
with,  the  master-spirit  of  modem  song.  He  fancied 
he  might,  by  paying  stricter  attention  than  had  been 
done  heretofore  to  the  melody  of  the  author,  his 
varying  metres  and  refrains,  approach  more  nearly 
to  the  spirit  of  the  original  than  had  perhaps  been 
achieved  in  any  extended  way  by  former  translations. 
'     A  writer  of  song  above  all  others  requires  the  most 

^  painstaking  exactness  in  his  translator.  A  change 
of  metre  changes  the  whole  character  of  such  a  com- 

t^  position.  We  would  hardly  recognize  a  song  of 
Burns  or  Shakspeare  or  Moore  altered  to  another 


.% 


f 


I 

I 


14  PREFACE. 


measure  in  a  foreign  tongue.  In  fact  it  would  not 
be  in  reality  a  song  of  either  of  these  poets  however 
faithfully  the  thought  01  imagery  might  be  retained. 
Remembering  this,  the  translator  has  aimed  at  giv- 
ing a  representative  number  of  the  famous  Chansons 
de  Beranger  in  as  faithful  a  following  of  the  metres 
of  the  original  as  he  deemed  admissible.  The  trans- 
lations of  Young,  Oxenford,  Brough,  Tonybee,  and 
others  have  been  compared  and  examined,  though 
with  the  exception  of  Mr.  Young's,  no  extensive 
translation  had  formerly  been  attempted.  English 
lovers  of  Beranger  may  miss  in  this  collection  one 
or  two  of  their  peculiar  favorites,  yet  where  so 
much  excellence  abounds  it  would  be  impossible 
to  satisfy  all  without  translating  the  whole  of  the 
songs.  The  translator  has  included  in  this  selection 
nearly  all  of  the  lyrics  which  are  commonly  recog- 
nized as  the  most  famous  examples  of  Beranger's 
Muse.  C.  L.  B. 


MEMOIR. 


In  the  year  1780,  nine  years  before  the  fall  of  the 
Bastile,  there  was  born  at  Paris,  in  the  humble  abode 
of  a  poor  tailor,  the  subject  of  this  brief  sketch.  No 
flowers,  as  he  himself  tells  us  in  graceful  verse,  were 
laid  by  fate  in  the  cradle  of  the  infant  Bcranger.  He 
was  early  deserted  by  his  parents,  the  remembrance  of 
whose  neglect  of  the  duties  of  affection  touched  his 
sensitive  heart  in  after  years,  and  he  was  left  to  the 
care  of  a  poor  and  pious  aunt,  living  in  the  town  of 
Peronne,  who  supplied  to  him  the  maternal  protec- 
tion due  to  his  tender  years.  Like  an  eaglet  in  a 
dove-cote,  the  nascent  genius  of  the  vivacious  child 
must  often  have  fluttered  the  propriety  of  his  well- 
meaning,  simple-minded  aunt.  There  is  an  anecdote 
of  these  early  days  in  example,  the  earliest  one 
which  we  have  of  his  youth.  His  aunt,  according 
to  her  pious  custom,  had  sprinkled  holy  water  about 
the  house,  when  on  a  sudden  a  thunder-storm  arose, 


x6  '    MEMOIR. 


and  the  little  Jean  Pierre,  then  five  or  six  years  old, 
was  struck  by  a  flash  of  lightning  and  quite  seriously 
injured.  His  only  reply  to  the  solicitations  of  his 
alarmed  relative,  foreshows  the  future  satirist. 
**  Well !  what  is  the  good  of  thy  holy  water?" 

It  were  a  pleasant  task,  if  here  admissible,  to  dwell 
upon  the  unfolding  of  the  mind  of  the  precocious  child, 
as  he  eagerly  devoured  such  literary  works  as  the 
stern  canons  of  his  aunt  allowed.  We  may  be  certain 
that  many  volumes  of  fabliaux  and  histories,  dramas 
and  epic  poems,  romances  and  ballads,  had  left  their 
impress  upon  his  youthful  imagination  before  his  ad- 
vent to  the  real  world  of  experience.  He  must  have 
been  well  acquainted,  even  at  this  early  age,  with 
the  translations  of  some  of  the  most  noted  poets  of 
antiquity,  for  his  earliest  verse  is  as  purely  classical 
in  spirit  as  that  of  his  later  years.  It  was  not  till  he  was 
eighteen,  however,  that  the  genius  of  Beranger  flow- 
ed into  song.  Up  to  this  time,  he  had  been  "mew- 
ing his  mighty  youth  "  during  the  days  of  his  early 
avocations,  the  inn  boy,  printer,  clerk  (gar5on  d'au- 
berge,  imprimeur,  commis),  stages  of  his  developing 
manhood.    His  first  lessons  in  verse  were  given  him 


^Sl 


MEMOIR. 


by  M.  Lalsney,  the  printer  with  whom  he  worked 
for  a  short  time  at  Peronne,  and  who  encouraged  the 
bright,  eager  youth  in  literary  pursuits.  Once  start- 
ed on  her  life  mission,  the  muse  of  B^ranger  never 
slumbered.  Year  after  year  were  sent  forth  to  the 
world  those  beautiful,  winged  couriers  of  song, 
adorned  with  every  grace  of  diction  and  movement, 
pulsating  with  every  breath  of  popular  inspiration. 
B^ranger  never  read  the  classics  in  the  original,  yet 
like  Keats  he  imbibed  through  the  imperfect  medium 
of  current  translations,  the  perfect  tone,  the  exact 
and  graceful  flow  of  the  Greek  style.  His  verse,  in 
fact,  is  artistically  perfect  both  in  form  and  spirit,  star- 
like in  its  symmetry  of  sparkling  and  beautiful  light. 
By  a  perusal  of  his  songs  we  see  the  whole 
panorama  of  his  life.  The  affection  of  friends,  such 
friends  as  Hugo,  Lamartine,  Gautier,  and  St.  Beuve, 
has  left  touching  memorials  of  his  sparkling  and 
glowing  wit,  of  his  graceful  and  tender  fancy,  of  his 
open  and  generous  soul.  His  loves,  his  friendships, 
his  praises  and  laments  for  his  beloved  France,  his 
hatred  of  tyranny  and  injustice,  his  sympathy  with 
every  form  of  common  life,  which  are  inimitably 


Of  MEMOIR. 


pictured  for  us  in  his  charming  songs,  are  not  the 
artistic  posings  of  a  sentimental  genius.  They  are 
color  lights  of  the  soul,  crowned  with  the  white  flame 
of  inspired  thought.  **  Mes  chansons  c'est  moi,"  he 
says  in  his  autobiography,  and  who  "will  doubt  it  as 
he  reads  those  beautifully  rhythmic  verses,  palpitating 
with  the  emotions  of  the  heart.  Amid  the  seething 
and  jarring  volcanic  forces  of  the  day,  Bourbon ist, 
Bonapartist,  Orleanist,  and  Republican,  these  song 
voices,  buoyed  upon  their  wings  of  wit  and  satire,  of 
tenderness  and  joy,  arc  heard  above  the  clamor  of 
party  strife,  clear  as  a  silver  bell,  their  notes  floating 
above  the  heads  of  men,  and  vibrating  deep  in  their 
hearts.  They  all  breathe  the  sturdy  independence 
of  their  creator's  character,  held  through  a  life  of  pov- 
erty bordering  upon  indigence,  held  in  spite  of  the 
most  tempting  bribes  to  ambition  or  love  of  ease,  in 
the  stress  of  worldly  loss  and  imprisonment.  Beran- 
ger  forfeited  his  modest  clerkship  under  the  govern- 
ment because  he  would  not  condescend  to  clothe  his 
opinions  of  the  ruling  powers  in  the  garb  of  self-in- 
terest. In  vain  did  the  vengeance  of  the  court  twice 
fall  upon  him.     Behind  the  bolts  of  La  Force  his 


MEMOIR. 


voice  grew  still  more  defiant,  and  his  passionate  love 
of  freedom  burst  forth  in  such  sublime  lyrics  as  the 
"  Fourteenth  of  July,"  and  '*  Farewell  to  the  Coun- 
try." All  France  was  moved  by  the  lofty  partiotism, 
the  touching  pathos  of  this  matchless  singer,  who 
like  the  caged  linnet,  sang  all  the  more  superbly  be- 
hind the  bars  of  his  dungeon.  But,  idolized  as  he 
was  by  the  people,  the  government  of  Charles  X. 
dared  not  long  deprive  so  popular  a  subject  of  his 
liberty,  and  at  last  he  enjoyed  full  immunity  from 
its  persecutions.  But  the  effect  of  his  songs  became 
as  great  as  their  popularity.  More  and  more  poign- 
ant fell  their  stinging  satire  against  the  court,  till 
they  culminated  in  such  scathing  irony  as  the  *'  Cor- 
onation of  Charles  the  Simple,"  and  the  *'  Advice  to 
the  Belgians."  At  length,  among  the  j^iers  of  the 
populace,  they  drove  the  unhappy  monarch  from  his 
throne.  It  is  said,  too,  that  in  his  glowing  tributes 
to  the  first  Napoleon,  he  aroused  such  sympathy  for 
the  fallen  fortunes  of  the  Bonapartes,  that  the  coup 
d'etat  of  Napoleon  the  Third  became  possible. 
Never  did  a  purely  literary  influence  so  mould  the 
course  of  events.      This  little  bald-headed  song- 


«p 


30 


MEMOIR. 


writer,  with  his  shabby  coat  and  his  stipend  of  a  few 
hundred  francs  a  year,  was  worth  a  dozen  armies  to 
the  popular  cause.  One  effort  of  his  muse  was 
more  potent  than  a  score  of  proclamations  of  the 
court  of  Versailles.  Though  on  the  whole  friendly 
to  the  new  Bonapartist  rigime^  no  enticements  of 
Louis  Napoleon  could  draw  the  people's  favorite 
singer  into  active  support  of  the  government.  Be- 
ranger  held  proudly  aloof  from  place  or  pension, 
choosing  to  spend  his  few  remaining  years  in  sim- 
ple, dignified  retirement,  surrounded  by  faithful 
friends  and  the  loving  admiration  of  his  country. 

Well  might  B^ranger  in  the  decline  of  life,  take  for- 
mal leave  of  his  admiring  audience,  with  dignified 
and  complacent  grace  rehearsing  the  achievements 
wrought  by  his  song.  In  his  quiet  retreat  at  Passy  in 
the  evening  of  his  days,  he  still  continued,  however, 
to  charm  the  world  with  verse,  at  last,  as  he  himself 
sang  of  the  love-poet  Parny,  his  contemporary,  dying 
upon  his  lyre,  that  wondrous  vehicle  of  song  which 
to  the  end  gave  neither  discord  nor  uncertain  sound, 
of  which  no  hand  has  been  able  to  perpetuate  the 
spell.  _  , 


MEMOIR. 


Thus  the  songs  of  B^ranger  are  inseparably  linked 
with  the  most  eventful  annals  of  France,  perhaps  of 
modern  civilization.  Through  them  the  spirits  of  a 
buried  past  are  clothed  to  our  imaginations  in  their 
fiesh  and  blood  reality.  They  come  before  us  like 
the  people  we  meet  in  the  street,  strange  of  manner 
and  costume  it  may  be,  but  none  the  less  real  and 
human.  For  in  them  is  not  only  embodied  a  person- 
ality, but  a  nation  ;  not  only  the  microcosm  of  a  life, 
but  the  macrocosm  of  a  society.  For  this  writer, 
more  distinctively  than  any  other  that  we  know  of  in 
history,  identified  himself  with  the  genius  of  his  age 
and  nation.  This  is  his  most  perfect  claim  to  the 
perpetuation  of  his  fame.  Beranger  was  in  himself 
the  France  of  its  great  transition  period.  More  dis- 
tinctively even  than  Bums  or  Horace,  he  expresses 
the  very  life  of  his  time.  As  a  deep-bosomed  moun- 
tain lake  mirrors  every  glow  of  heaven,  every  shad- 
ow of  earth,  in  its  translucent  depths,  so  every  aspira- 
tion of  the  genius  of  the  Revolution,  in  its  changing 
fluxes  of  popular  sentiment,  found  its  accompanying 
reflection  in  his  songs.     And  through  them  all,  like 


»s  MEMOIR. 


a  sweet  minor  chord  running  through  the  volume  of 
a  mighty  symphony,  the  man  himself,  incorruptible, 
warm-hearted,  generous,  tender,  loving,  frank,  effer- 
vescing with  Gallic  piquancy  and  wit,  a  master  of 
every  range  of  expression  between  the  poles  of  feel- 
ing,— is  revealed.  His  songs  are  an  autobiography 
in  verse.  He  delights  to  tell  all  about  himself,  not 
with  the  studied  self-consciousness  of  a  Rousseau  or 
a  Gibbon,  but  with  the  graceful  abandon  of  a  child. 
He  has  no  finesse  or  reserve,  nor  cares  to  have. 
Even  in  his  songs  to  prcteiided  mistresses  he  is  Be- 
ranger  and  no  one  elr.c.  He  is  as  genuine  and  orig- 
inal as  Burns  ;  but  he  has  more  of  rapier-like  wit  and 
classic  grace  than  the  Scot,  more  delicate  fancy  and 
refined  bonhommie.  Beranger  turned  even  pover- 
ty into  an  alluring  grace.  There  was  no  repining  in 
that  sunny  nature,  save  that  youth  does  not  last  for- 
ever, that  beauty  will  pall  at  last  upon  the  heart. 
But  when  youth  and  love  forsook  him,  he  clasped 
his  arm  around  his  goddess.  Friendship,  and  sipped 
his  wine  with  all  the  grace  of  yore.  If  he  had  no 
Lisctte  near,  he  could  be  tender  and  witty  over  the 
most  commonplace  of   subjects.     An    inspiration 


MEMOIR. 


seizes  him,  and  his  old  coat  serves  him  for  a  theme. 
Nothing  came  amiss  to  this  laughing  philosopher, 
this  pensive  Mercury  of  the  boulevards.  One  of  his 
finest  songs  is  in  praise  of  the  garret  of  his  youth. 

He  is  himself  the  Roger  Bontemps  of  his  song. 
No  man  perhaps  with  less  of  worldly  goods  enjoyed 
life  more.  But  though  an  Epicurean  by  nature,  yet 
he  was  a  Spartan  in  principle,  a  self-sacrificing  pa- 
triot, a  champion  of  the  people,  his  people,  whom 
through  all  the  vicissitudes  of  his  fortunes,  despite 
all  the  flatteries  and  threats  of  the  great,  he  never 
forsook.  In  him  the  sapling  of  a  true  democracy 
flowered  into  song.  And  song  in  its  highest  excel- 
lence must  touch  the  masses.  It  is  then  the  most 
potent  thing  on  earth, — a  rainbow-winged  Ariel  fly- 
ing over  land  and  sea  and  bewitching  men's  hearts. 
Such  are  the  songs  of  Beranger. 

In  his  hands  the  Chanson  of  the  Troubadours  be- 
came p.t  times  a  terrible  satiric  weapon,  which  struck 
often  as  potently  as  the  axe  of  the  executioner.  At 
times  it  rises  in  its  power  of  invective  to  the  sublim- 
ity of  a  Pindaric  ode.  His  wit  is  as  polished  and 
adorned  as  the  blade  of  Excaliber,  its  edge  is  as 


fti  MEMOIR. 


trenchant  and  keen.  Unless  it  is  Horace,  we  knov; 
of  no  poet  who  wields  his  satiric  weapon  with  such 
Saladin-like  grace  and  spirit.  Juvenal,  Churchill, 
Pope,  and  Dryden  are  heavy-armed  crusaders,  but 
this  light-horsed  Arab  outrivals  them  all.  Whether 
it  be  in  pinning  an  epigram  to  the  skirts  of  a  great 
man,  or  blasting  with  a  lightning  flash  of  invective 
the  pinchbeck  titles  of  a  corrupt  administration,  there 
is  the  same  union  of  strength  and  dexterity,  the  same 
unrivalled  taste  in  the  use  of  metaphor  and  graceful 
sardonic  humor.  Dazzled  as  he  was  by  the  glamour 
of  the  first  Emperor's  splendid  achievements,  he  was 
far-seeing  enough,  to  note  their  tendency  to  subvert 
the  liberties  of  popular  government.  And  when  all 
Europe  was  bowing  before  the  Conqueror  of  Auster- 
litz  and  Jena,  he  still  dared  reprove  the  lawless  am- 
bition of  Napoleon.  He  was  at  once  the  gentlest  and 
most  dauntless  of  human  beings.  That  charming 
combination  of  wonderful  tenderness  and  Olympian 
wrath,  which  we  so  admire  in  Bums,  we  see  also  in 
him.  In  truth,  he  is  the  singer  par  excellence,  for  he 
touches  every  mood  with  the  same  easy  grace,  with 
the  same  perfection  of  melody. 


itfita 


w% 


MEMOIR. 


as 


To  his  countrymen,  his  songs  are  conservators  of 
faiths  and  joys.  To  the  world  they  are  advocates  J 
for  sympathy  toward  his  disappointed  yet  ever  as- 
piring race,  for  kindliness  toward  those  who  most 
deserve  our  kindness,  to  whom  he  himself  was  ever 
kind  and  charitable— the  poor  and  the  distressed. 

Ct  L>.  8. 


UL 


THE  KING  OF  YVETOT. 
Le  roi  d*  Yvetot. 

May,  1813. 

[This  extremely  popular  sonj;^  satirized  the  ambitious  de- 
signs and  warlike  propensities  of  the  first  Napoleon.] 

A    KING  once  lived  of  Yvetot, 
Though  little  known  his  name, 
Rose  late,  to  bed  did  early  go, 

Slept  well,  nor  cared  for  fame. ''     • 
And  Jenny  clapped,  his  crown  instead, 
A  cotton  night-cap  on  his  head, 

•  'Tis  said. 
Ho  !  ho  !  ho  !  ho  !    ha  !  ha  !  ha !  ha ! 
What  a  good  little  king,  hurrah  I 
Hurrah ! 


J 

i 


aS  THE  KING  OF  WE  TOT. 

He  ate  four  meals  a  day  inside 
His  palace  thatched  with  straw  ; 

And  pace  by  pace,  an  ass  astride, 
His  kingdom  travelling  saw. 

Plain,  jovial,  thinking  good,  agog. 

He  'd  but  for  guard,  as  forth  he  *d  jog, 
A  dog  ! 

Ho  !  ho  !  ho  !  ho  !    ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  ha ! 

What  a  good  little  king,  hurrah  ! 
Hurrah  ! 

But  one  onerous  taste  had  he, 

His  thirst  was  somewhat  vif ; 
For  though  his  people  happy  be. 

Of  course  a  king  must  live. 
For  table  he  directly  got. 
From  every  puncheon  taxed,  a  pot 

By  lot. 
Ho  !  ho  !  ho  !  ho  !    ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  ha! 
What  a  good  little  king,  hurrah  ! 

Hurrah ! 


Ill  I 
II 


THE  KING  OF  WE  TOT.  99 

Since  maidens  of  good  birth  were  glad 

To  bow  to  his  desire, 
His  folk  a  hundred  reasons  had 

To  call  the  king  their  sire. 
He  'd  bring  to  butts  his  train-bands  crack 
Each  quarter  day,  the  bull's-eye's  black 

To  whack  ! 
Ho  !  ho  !  ho  !  ho  !    ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 
What  a  good  little  king,  hurrah  ! 
'I  Hurrah ! 

He  ne'er  enlarged  his  proper  states, 

With  all  at  peace  abode  ; 
He  was  your  model,  potentates  ! 

For  pleasure  was  his  code. 
Till  death  his  people's  love  he  kept  ; 
They  ne'er,  till  in  the  tomb  he  slept, 

Had  wept ! 
Ho  !  ho  !  ho  !  ho  !    ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  ha ! 
What  a  good  little  king,  hurrah  ! 
Hurrah  ! 


J. 


Ik 


:i 


fo 


THE  KING  OF  YVETOT. 


They  keep  the  portrait,  painted  fine, 

Of  that  right-worthy  prince  ; 
It  hangs  a  famous  tavern  sign 

In  that  good  land  long  since. 
As  oft  a  fete  they  drink  once  more, 
The  crowd  still  shouts  the  wine-shop  door 

Before, 
Ho  !  ho  !  ho  !  ho  !    ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  ha ! 
What  a  good  little  king,  hurrah  ! 
Hurrah ! 


CHARLES  VII. 

Charles   VII, 

A  GNES  commands,  I  seek  the  fight : 
Ye  pleasures,  soft  repose,  adieu  ! 
I  have,  to  vcnge  my  crown  and  right, 
My  God,  my  love,  my  heroes  true. 
English,  the  name  of  my  fair  dame 

Shall  through  your  ranks  a  terror  pour ; 
With  her  I  did  forget  my  fame  ; 
My  honor  Agnes  doth  restore. 


In  sports  of  idle  courtly  day, 

I,  Frenchman,  King,  no  danger  towards. 
Did  little  heed  my  country  lay 

A  prey  to  strangers'  chains  and  swords. 


n 


CHARLES  VII. 


»       M 


A  word,  one  word  from  my  fair  dame, 
With  blush  of  shame  I  'm  crimsoned  o'er 

With  her  I  did  forget  my  fame  ; 
My  honor  Agnes  doth  restore. 


My  blood,  if  blood  can  victory  take, 

All,  Agnes,  all  I  *11  let  it  free  ! 
But  no  !  for  love  and  glory's  sake 

Must  Charles  a  living  victor  be. 
I  must  prevail,  my  peerless  dame, 

Thy  crest  and  colors  glow  once  more  ! 
With  her  I  did  forget  my  fame  ; 

My  honor  Agnes  doth  restore. 


Dunois,  La  Tremouille,  Saintrailles  ! 

Ah,  Frenchmen  !  what  a  happy  day 
When  I  my  fair  one  crowned  shall  hail 

With  twenty  laurels  won  in  fray  ! 


^^lll^^^^^^_--|__lgllg-|l 


CHARLES   VII. 


33 


You,  rapture,  I,  an  honored  name, 
Earn,  Frenchmen,  paying  her  devoir  ; 

With  her  I  did  forget  my  fame  ; 
My  honor  Agnes  doth  restore. 


1'    ! 


^i 


'I      ■  '  1  .  ■ 

1  ■;;;!: 


i  •■ih' 


;    ll 

'    :| 
I 

fi    J      II      1 

I 


i 


THE  BEGGARS. 
Les  gueux^ 

1813. 

T  T  O  !  the  beggars,  ho  ! 

They  all  happy  go  ; 
True  love  too  they  show 
The  beggars,  ho  ! 

Now  let  us  sing  the  merit 
Of  beggar  men  so  bold  ; 

We  must  avenge  with  spirit 
Good  men  who  nothing  hold. 

Ho !  the  beggars,  ho  ! 
They  all  happy  go ; 


I. 


••^' .^-..-.-^,.-,,=,,,,,==,^^,,^ .„— 


THE  BEGGARS, 


n 


True  love  too  they  show. 
The  beggars,  ho ! 

Yes,  happiness  is  easy, 
E'en  on  the  breast  of  want : 

So  says  the  Book,  so  please  ye 
Note  me  and  my  gay  chant. 

Ho  !  the  beggars,  ho  ! 

They  all  happy  go  ; 
True  love  too  they  show. 

The  beggars,  ho  ! 

Want  ever  dwells  a  roamer 
Parnassus  on,  they  say  ; 

What  comforts  had  old  Homer? 
A  scrip  and  staff  alway. 


Ho  !  the  beggars,  ho  ! 
They  all  happy  go  ; 


F^^fW 


36 


THE  BEGGARS. 


True  love  too  they  show. 
The  beggars  ho ! 

Ye,  who  misfortune  clinches, 
Know,  heroes  not  a  few, 

Oft,  when  the  fine  boot  pinches, 
Regret  the  wooden  shoe. 

Ho  !  the  beggars,  ho  ! 

They  all  happy  go  ; 
True  love  too  they  show. 

The  beggars,  ho ! 

Pomps  wondered  at  and  shouted, 
To  great  ones  exile  bring  ; 

Diogenes  once  flouted. 
From  tub,  a  conquering  king. 


Ho  !  the  beggars,  he  ! 
They  all  happy  go  ; 


THE  BEGGARS. 


37 


True  love  too  they  show. 
The  beggars,  ho ! 

You  see  a  palace  gleaming, 
Yet  enntti  groans  e'en  there. 

One  may  on  straw  be  dreaming, 
And  feast  off  tables  bare. 

Ho  !  the  beggars,  ho  ! 

They  all  happy  go  ; 
True  love  too  they  show. 

The  beggars,  ho  I 

What  God  with  flowers  is  it 
Doth  strew  this  bed  in  glee  ? 

'Tis  Love  returns  to  vi^it 
My  smiling  poverty. 


Ho  !  the  beggars,  ho  ! 
They  all  happy  go ; 


n 


|i  THE  BEGGARS. 


True  love  too  they  show. 
The  beggars,  ho ! 

Friendship,  we  mourned  as  flitting, 
Quits  not  this  land  of  mine  : 

She  's  twixt  two  soldiers  sitting, 
Tippling  the  tavern  wine. 

Ho  !  the  beggars,  ho  ! 

They  all  happy  go ; 
True  love  too  they  show. 

The  beggars,  ho ! 


ill 


.1 


THE  TWO  GRENADIERS. 


Les  deux  grenadiers. 


April,  1S14. 


FIRST  GRENADIER. 


o 


UR  post 's  forgotten  in  the  round  ; 
'Tis  midnight,  James,  at  the  chateau. 


SECOND   GRENADIER. 


Once  more  for  Italy  we  're  bound, 
To-morrow,  good-bye,  Fontainebleau ! 


FIRST  GREN/IDIER. 


By  heaven !  which  also  I  give  thanks, 
The  skies  of  Elba  brightly  glow. 


m 


m 


THE   TIVO  GRENADIERS, 


SECOND   GRENADIER. 


Should  Utmost  Russia  see  our  ranks, 
Old  grenadiers,  with  an  old  soldier  go ! 


TOGETHER. 


Old  grenadiers,  with  an  old  soldier  go  I 
With  an  old  soldier  go  ! 


SECOND  GRENADIER. 

Ah  !  how  fast  came  our  defeats  ! 

Where  *s  Moscow,  Wilna,  and  Berlin  ? 
I  think  I  see  on  our  bayonets 

Still  gleam  the  flames  of  the  Kremlin. 
And  lost  by  those  in  treachery  skilled. 

Even  Paris  scarcely  cost  a  blow  ! 
We  had  our  cartridge-boxes  filled ! 

Old  grenadiers,  with  an  old  soldier  go  ! 


A 


Ml 


THE  TWO  GRENADIERS. 


4X 


FIRST  GRENADIER. 

He  abdicates,  says  one  and  all ; 
What  is  the  meaning  of  that  word — 
Is 't  the  republic  they  recall  ? 

SECOND   GRENADIER. 

No,  they  've  a  king  once  more  restored. 

I  think,  had  he  crowns  hundred-fold, 
The  emperor  would  all  bestow  ; 

He  once  in  alms  gave  crowns  of  gold. 
Old  grenadiers,  with  an  old  soldier  go  ! 

FIRST  GRENADIER. 

One  light  upon  the  window  mapped, 
Shines  faintly  forth  from  the  chateau.     "* 


SECOND   GRENADIER. 


Their  noses  in  their  mantles  wrapped, 
The  noble  lacqueys  fleeing  go. 


4« 


THE   TWO  GRENADIERS. 


The  gold  lace  stripped  from  their  costumes, 
To  the  new  chief  they  're  bowing  low  ; 

They  sell  him  the  dead  eagle's  plumes  ; 
Old  grenadiers,  with  an  old  soldier  go  ! 

FIRST   GRENADIER.  / 

Our  marshals,  comrades  in  the  wars, 
They  too  have  left  us,  gorged  with  gold ; 

SECOND   GRENADIER. 

Our  blood  has  bought  them  all  their  stars  ; 

Thank  heaven !  our  veins  yet  something  hold. 
What !  Glory  was  their  foster-mother, 

In  person  led  them  on  the  foe, 
And  they  desert  their  foster-father  ! 

Old  grenadiers,  with  an  old  soldier  go  ! 

FIRST   GRENADIER. 

I,  after  twenty  years  of  wars, 

Had  thought  to  beg  for  some  reprieve. 


tl  I 


THE   TWO  GRENADIERS, 


43 


SECOND   GRENADIER. 

I,  almost  covered  o'er  with  scars, 
The  colors  wished  at  last  to  leave. 

But  when  the  beaker 's  running  dry, 
We  '11  not  be  base  and  break  it,— no  ! 

Wife,  children,  native  land,  good-bye ! 
Old  grenadiers,  with  an  old  soldier  go  ! 


TOGETHER. 

Old  grenadiers,  with  an  old  soldier  go  ! 
With  an  old  soldier  go  ! 


LIGHT-HEARTED  DICK. 

Roger  Bontemps, 

January,  1814. 

'T^O  give  them  heart  of  grace, 

'Twas  in  times  forlorn, 
Unto  a  bilious  race 

Light-hearted  Dick  was  bom. 
He  chose  to  live  obscure, 
To  scorn  the  splenetic  ; 
"  Still  gay ! "  the  motto  sure 
Of  Light-hearted  Dick. 


n 

i!! 


Hat,  by  his  father  worn 
Once  in  days  renowned, 


LIGHT-HEARTED  DICK, 


45 


Dick  doth  still  adorn, 
Rose  and  ivy  bound. 

Friend  of  twenty  years, 
Cloak  both  coarse  and  thick, 
*'  Still  gay  ! "  often  wears 
Big  Light-hearted  Dick. 

He  owned  within  his  hut 

A  table,  bed,  and  rug ; 
He  had  his  cards  and  flute  ; 

God  somehow  filled  his  jug. 
A  girl's  face  on  the  wall, 

A  trunk,  not  in 't  a  stick, 
••  Still  gay ! "  these  the  all 

Of  Light-hearted  Dick, 


Children  of  the  town 
Little  plays  he  'd  show ; 

He  had  much  renown 
Ticklish  tales  to  know. 


46 


LIGHT-HEARTED  DICK. 


Dance,  and  song-book  lore, 
Though  at  nought  else  quick, 
*'  Still  gay  ! "  such  he  bore, 
Our  Light-hearted  Dick, 


ii;!' 


!  i 


I  1  ' 


He  no  grape  ilite 

Drank, — but  canton  wine  ; 
He  chose  his  Marguerite 

Before  all  ladies  fine. 
Tenderness  and  joy 

Filled  each  instant  quick ; 
**  Still  gay  ! "  such  employ 

Had  Light-hearted  Dick. 


"  I  trust,"  to  Heaven  said  he. 

Thy  goodness,  Father  dear  I 


41 


Of  my  philosophy 
Pardon  the  good  cheer ; 

May 't  still  be  spring  and  fair. 
When  out  is  burned  life's  wick, 


LIGHT-HEARTED  DICK, 


47 


Still  gay  ! "  this  is  the  prayer 
Of  Light-hearted  Dick. 


Ye  poor  of  envious  soul, 

Ye  rich,  with  greedy  care, ' 
Ye,  who  on  chariots  roll 

In  vain  from  woes  ye  bear, 
Ye,  who  've  lost  maybe 

The  glow  of  titles  thick, 
"  Still  gay  ! "  your  teacher  see 

In  Light-hearted  Dick ! 


THE  GAULS  AND  FRANKS. 

Les  Gaulois  et  Francois, 

January,  1814. 


i!! 


[Beranger  wrote  this  noble  appeal  while  Napoleon  was 
vainly  attempting  to  arrest  the  march  of  the  allied  armies  on 
Paris.] 

f~^  AILY  !  gaily  !  close  our  ranks  ! 

Arm  !    Advance ! 

Hope  of  France  ! 
Gaily  !  gaily  !  close  our  ranks  ! 
Onward  !  Onward  !  Gauls  and  Franks  ! 


Blindly  following  Attila's  call, 
The  barbarous  horde 
Onward  poured. 


THE  GAULS  AND  FRANKS, 


49 


Comes  a  second  time  to  fall, 
Conquered  on  the  fields  of  Gaul ! 

Gaily  1  gaily  !  close  our  ranks  ! 

Arm  I    Advance ! 

Hope  of  France  J 
Gaily  !  gaily  !  close  our  ranks  ! 
Onward  !  Onward  !  Gauls  and  Franks  ! 

Leaving  his  morasses  cold, 

The  Cossack, 

In  bivouac, 
Dreams,  through  faith  in  English  gold, 
Revel  in  our  halls  to  hold  ! 


Gaily  !  gaily  !  close  our  ranks  ! 

Arm !    Advance  1 

Hope  of  France ! 
Gaily  1  gaily  !  close  our  ranks  I 
Onward  1  Onward !  Gauls  and  Franks  I 


50  TFfE  GAULS  AND  FRANKS. 

Shivering  Russians,  starved  and  numb- 
All  below 
One  siege  of  snow — 

Fly  black  bread  and  acorns  from  ; 

For  our  white  bread  ravined  come  ! 

Gaily  !  gaily  !  close  our  ranks  ! 

Arm!     Advance! 

Hope  of  France ! 
Gaily  !  gaily  !  close  our  ranks  I 
Onward  !  Onward  !  Gauls  and  Franks  ! 

What !  the  vintage  rare  and  fine, 

Poured  to  acclaim 

Of  battle  fame — 
Drunk  up  i  Saxon  swine  ! 

No  r  'iigs,  and  no  more  wine  ! 

Gaily  !  gaily  !  close  our  ranks  1 
Arm !    Advance ! 
Hope  of  France!  '^ 


THE  GAULS  AND  FRANKS, 


Gaily  !  gaily  !  close  our  ranks  ! 
Onward  !  Onward  I  Gauls  and  Franks ! 

For  the  Calmucks,  rude  and  base, 

Our  daughters  fair 

Are  too  rare ! 
Have  our  wives  too  rich  a  grace  ; 
Be  their  sons  of  Frenchmen's  race  ! 

Gaily  !  gaily  !  close  our  ranks  ! 

Arm  !    Advance  1  . 

Hope  of  France  I 
Gaily  !  gaily  !  close  our  ranks  I 
Onward !  Onward  1  Gauls  and  Franks ! 


What  I  those  trophies  fair  to  see. 

Which  emblaze 

Our  glory's  praise, 
Stretched  in  ruin  shall  they  be  ! 
What !  the  Prussians  in  Paris  ! 


fit        ••         THE  GAULS  AND  FRANKS.         . 

Gaily  !  gaily  f  close  our  ranks  ! 
•  Arm!    Advance! 
Hope  of  France  I 
Gaily  !  gaily  I  close  our  ranks  I      ■       ' 
Onward  !  Onward  !  Gauls  and  Franks  ! 

Noble  Franks  and  honest  Gauls, 

Soon  descend 

Peace  your  friend ! 
And  repay  within  your  halls, 
Your  high  deeds  with  festivals  ! 

Gaily  !  gaily  !  close  our  ranks ! 

Arm !     Advance  ! 

Hope  of  France  I 
Gaily  !  gaily  !  close  our  ranks  ! 
Onward  !  Onward  !  Gauls  and  Franks  ! 


'.-:■./ 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  VOYAGE. 


Les  Commencement  du  Voyage, 


O  EE,  my  friends,  this  airy  bark  again, 

Which  upon  life's  wave  puts  forth  to  sea, 
Doth  a  lovely  passenger  contain  ; 

Ah  !  may  we  her  earliest  sailors  be. 
See,  that  sweetly  she  may  sail  forever. 

Soon  the  waves  will  float  her  from  the  Sii  re ; 
We,  who  see  heir  from  the  haven  sever, 

Cheer  her  passage  with  brave  songs  a  store. 


Fate  doth  on  her  sail  already  blow ; 

Hope  already  rigging  doth  prepare 
And  doth  promise,  from  the  stars  that  glow, 

Seas  of  calm  and  winds  both  soft  and  fair. 
Fly,  fly  hence,  birds  of  ill-omened  feather. 

The  Loves  shall  own  this  shallop  evermore  ; 


rfff 


54  THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  VOYAGE. 

We,  who  see  her  from  the  haven  sever, 
Cheer  her  passage  with  brave  songs  a  store. 

They  the  mast  with  votive  garlands  grace  : 

Yes,  the  Loves  intend  with  her  to  sail ; 
Friendship  at  the  helm  takes  her  place  ; 

To  the  sisters  chaste  no  offerings  fail. 
Bacchus  himself  the  crew  Is  cheering  ever ; 

Pleasures  are  invoked  to  pull  the  oar ; 
We  who  see  her  from  the  haven  sever, 

Cheer  her  passage  with  brave  songs  a  store. 

Who  comes  here,  saluting  our  light  bark  ? 

*Tis  Misfortune,  blessing  Virtue's  maid  ; 
Praying,  on  what  good  she  *s  set  her  mark. 

To  this  child  the  price  may  now  be  paid. 
How  the  shore  resounds  with  prayers  to  save  her, 

Sure  the  gods  will  list  to  their  implore  ! 
We,  who  see  her  from  the  haven  sever, 

Cheer  her  passage  with  brave  songs  a  store. 


MY   LAST  SONG,  PERHAPS. 

Ma  dernih'e  Chanson  peut-itre, 

January,  1814. 

'T^HE  glory  of  a  Frenchman's  name 

Failed  never  to  inspire  my  verse  ; 
Through  France  the  stranger  comes  in  fame, 

And  his  successes  all  I  curse. 
But  though  'tis  honorable  to  grieve, 

What  boots  it  now  to  groaning  go  ? 
Old  Time  doth  yet  one  laugh  reprieve, — 

'Tis  so  much  taken  from  the  foe  ! 


To-day,  when  many  brave  men  fear, 
I,  coward,  tremble  not  at  all. 

Rejoiced  that  Bacchus  brings  us  here 
To  tipple  at  his  festival.  * 


56  MV  LAST  SONG,  PERHAPS. 

Friends  !  he  's  the  god  that  I  implore  ; 

He  makes  my  heart  with  courage  glow  ; 
Drink  gaily,  comrades,  drink  once  more  ! 

'Tis  so  much  taken  from  the  foe. 

My  creditors  like  corsairs,  they 

Have  lately  all  against  me  turned ; 
I  had  just  gone  my  debts  to  pay, 

When  what  you  now  well  know,  I  learned, 
Race  of  avarice-eaten  men, 

I  'd  for  your  gold  a  sudden  throe  ! 
Lend  me  gold  then,  lend  again  ! 

'Tis  so  much  taken  from  the  foe. 

There  's  a  mistress  young  of  mine, 
Who  will  in  many  dangers  run  ; 

I  think  the  traitress  hath  design 
At  heart,  the  stranger  foe  upon. 

There  's  certain  freedoms  we  regret, 
She  but  half  dreads  to  undergo  ; 


MV  LAST  SONG,  PERHAPS. 


m 


But  I  've  this  evening  left  me  yet, 

*Tis  so  much  taken  from  the  foe  ! 

If  Hope,  friends,  will  not  on  us  glance, 

Let 's  swear  e'en  at  the  risk  of  death, 
That,  for  these  enemies  of  France, 

We  will  not  raise  a  welcome  breath. 
But  hold  this  in  your  memories  fast. 

The  swan  in  death  dies  singing, — so 
Sing  yet,  ye  Frenchmen,  to  the  last ! 

'Tis  so  much  taken  from  the  foe  t 

,    .     ■■  '    ■  ■     ^    rl'   :       f>'l 

■.■;;■■;-  I 

.  •  r    .     I     ..    i    !.■; 
t  ,      ,   „  ' 


..>-f*;f -5 


A  PASSING  ROUND  THE  BAUBLE. 

Un  tour  de   marotte. 

[Song'  sungf  at  the  Suppers  of  Momus.] 

'T^H  AT  Momus,  god  of  verses  good. 
Be  Epicurus'  friend, 
fjll  My  girdle  round,  in  jolly  mood. 

His  chaplets  I  suspend. 
Now  to  his  sway 
We  tribute  pay, 
While  his  gay  pranks  abound : 
^  Hands  round,  be  gay 

Till  break  of  day, 
And  pass  the  bauble  round. 


I!!   I, ill 
I 


'     I 

!    ( 


J  I 


i!i 


A   PASSING  ROUND   THE  BAUBLE. 


59 


The  bauble's  power  opposing  mocks 

That  which  the  sceptre  sways  ; 
The  great  folks'  fingers  Momus  knocks 

To  whom  they  incense  raise. 
He  gaily  beats 
The  fools  and  cheats 

In  mitre,  crest,  and  gown  : 
Hands  round,  be  gay 
Till  break  of  day, 

And  pass  the  bauble  round. 

Should  one  be  lion  in  saloons, 

Or  doctor  scented  o'er. 
Or  should  a  lackey  change  galoons 

And  not  his  chamber  door, 
They  'd  Paris  find 
To  tricks  inclined ; 

Thank  us,  who  them  confound : 
Hands  round,  be  gay 
Till  break  of  day,      '    *^     • 

And  pass  the  bauble  round. 


I;|f 


A   PASSING  ROUND   THE  BAUBLE. 


It  has  at  Beauty's  court  employ  ; 

They  there  the  bauble  use  ; 
It  is  to  Love  himself  a  toy  ; 

It  Venus  doth  amuse  ; 
Both  actress  and  the  devotee 

It  lures  with  joyous  souad : 
Hands  round,  be  gay        ,  5 
W  Till  break  of  day. 

And  pass  the  bauble  round. 

Its  bells  chime  to  the  tambourine 

Of  the  god  of  vintage-time  ; 
When  wine  in  floods  of  ruby  sheen 

Doth  charm  night's  weary  prime  ; 
Oh  yes,  its  bells, 
When  trouble  swells, 

An  antidote  are  found  : 
Hands  round,  be  gay 
Till  break  of  day, 

And  pass  the  bauble  round. 


A   PASSING  ROUND   THE  BAUBLE. 


6i 


No  laggards,  ye  who  feastward  press  ! 

It  seems  to  me,  good  friends, 
That  Friendship  all  of  them  doth  bless 

That  to  the  feast  she  sends ; 
Young  souls  of  wit 
There  laughing  sit, 

There  rave  and  table  pound : 

Hands  round,  be  gay 

Till  break  of  day, 

And  pass  the  bauble  round.        v 

} 

To  clang  of  bells  each  joyous  man, 

Then  sing  ye  here  your  mass : 
Beneath  their  god,  priest,  sacristan 

Do  ye  to  joyance  pass  ! 
In  gay  refrain 
Then  wake  the  strain, 

And  make  the  note  resound : 
Hands  round,  be  gay 
Till  break  of  day. 

And  pass  the  bauble  round. 


».T.;    >.w.  f- 


OLD  CLOTHING!  OLD  GALOONS ! 

OR,    MORAL     AND     POLITICAL     REFLECTIONS     OF      A 
CLOTHES-DEALER   OF  THE  CAPITAL. — FIRST 
■s     RESTORATION,    1814. 

Vieux  habits  !     Vieux  galons  ! 

/^LD-CLOTHES  merchants  though  we  be, 

Good  Sirs  !  a-many  men  we  see  ; 
From  end  to  end  of  this  big  ball 
Dress  governs  all. 
Amidst  the  changes  we  discuss, 
The  cast-oflf  clothes  belong  to  us  ; 
We  reckon  profits  by  doubloons. 
Old  clothing  !     Old  galoons  ! 


Sometimes  in  reading  the  gazette, 
I,  with  some  others,  do  regret 


OLD  CLOTHING  t    OLD  GALOONSt  63 

The  French  hold  now  in  no  repute 
The  'broidered  suit.  ,      f       . 

But  1  've  been  told  by  those  who  know, 
Anew  old  prejudices  grow  ; 
We  *11  soon  be  quitting  pantaloons. 
Old  clothing  !     Old  galoons  ! 

Fashion  and  politics  are  made 

To  swell  a  hundred  times  my  trade  : 

What  credit  to  the  work  is  due 

On  suitings  new  ! 

When  they  're  forgot,  those  tunics  worn, 

Our  civic  goddesses  did  adorn, 

To  passers  back  they  go  eftsoons. 

Old  clothing  !     Old  galoons  ! 

In  famous  hundred  battle  days, 
The  coat's  edge  wore  galoon  always ; 
Galoon  all  covered  o'er  was  seen       • 
The  suitings  green.  ,  t  ? -:  >/ 


OLD  CLOTHING!   OLD  G A  LOONS  t 

There  comes  no  glory  save  with  luck ! 
After  each  victory  we  pluck, 
Content  alone,  our  special  boons. 
Old  clothing  !    Old  galoons  ! 

.•'  "•  •  •■  >•  •  ■        ■'•■.'■<... 
We  also  find  our  gain  the  same 
With  all  that  race,  who  without  shame, 
Back  on  a  sudden  tide-wave  float 
To  change  their  coat. 
The  lackeys,  trooping  all  belaced, 
To-day  to  sell  their  liveries  haste  ; 
What  lines  of  blue  coats  like  dragoons  ! 
Old  clothing  !    Old  galoons  ! 

Defenders  of  our  grandsires'  day, 
From  noble  haunts,  come  now  this  way  : 
At  last  in  its  turn,  out  of  press 
Comes  the  court  dress. 
Now  buying  back  their  old  costumes, 
With  heels  of  red  and  snowy  plumes, 


OLD  CLOTHING!    OLD  C A  LOONS/ 

Tlicy  go  to  reign  in  the  saloons. 
Old  clothing  !     Old  galoons  ! 

Our  scruples  held  in  no  regard, 
Should  this  vile  horde  of  atheists  hard 
Add  to  the  number  of  their  taints 
The  robes  of  saints, 
'Neath  many  a  philosophic  nose 
I  will  their  stuff  for  sale  expose  : 
To  double  gain  our  virtue  tunes. 
Old  clothing  !    Old  galoons  ! 

Lauded  long  time  in  all  their  works, 
Great  men,  now  treated  worse  than  Turks, 
Dwell  in  their  manors  farthest  back 
In  suits  of  black. 

But,  thanks  to  us,  come  to  our  haunt 
Those  mantles  which  no  more  they  want ; 
Too  long  and  thick  for  afternoons. 
Old  clothing  !     Old  galoons  ! 


66  OLD  CLOTHING!   OLD   G A  LOONS! 

Of  riches  I  'm  assured  some  day  :   , 
In  France,  the  people  hold  alway, 
At  town,  court,  play,  in  most  repute 
The  'Lroidered  suit. 
Race,  decked  in  scarlet  and  in  gold, 
During  one  month  you  '11  be  extolled, 
Then  to  your  waning  with  the  moon's  ! 
Old  clothing  !    Old  galoons  ! 


-I -TiM 


THE  NEW  DIOGENES. 

Lf  Nouveau  Diogene, 

•pvIOGENES, 

'Neath  cloak  of  thine, 
Free  and  content,  I  sit  and  drink  at  ease. 

Diogenes, 
'Neath  cloak  of  thine. 
Free  and  content,  I  roll  this  tub  of  mine. 

Men  say,  from  water  they  thy  rudeness  trace  ; 

I,  gayer  censor  ne'er  to  it  apply. 
In  scarce  a  month,  to  give  my  wisdom  place, 

I  drained  a  cask  of  good  old  wine  quite  dry. 


Diogenes, 
'Neath  cloak  of  thine, 
Free  and  content,  I  sit  and  drink  at  ease. 


63 


THE  NEW  DIOGENES. 


Diogenes, 
'Neath  cloak  of  thine, 
Free  and  content,  I  roll  this  tub  of  mine. 

Where  I  *m  well  placed,!  easily  sojourn  ; 

But,  like  as  we,  the  gods  inconstant  prove. 
Within  my  tub,  upon  this  globe  that  turns, 

I  also  turn,  with  time  and  fortune  move. 

t)iogenes, 
'Neath  cloak  of  thine, 
Free  and  content,  I  sit  and  drink  at  ease. 

Diogenes, 
'Neath  cloak  of  thine, 
Free  and  content,  I  roll  this  tub  of  mine. 


Parties  I  Ve  jeered  a  hundred  times  away, 

Thinking  I  can  no  useful  strength  impart. 
Before  my  tub,  now  do  not  stop  to  say. 

Whom  art  thou  for,  thou  who  for  nothing 
art?" 


(I 


THE  NEW  DIOGENES. 


H 


Diogenes,  i 

'Neath  cloak  of  thine, 
Free  and  content,  I  sit  and  drink  at  ease. 

Diogenes, 
'Neath  cloak  of  thine, 
Free  and  content,  I  roll  this  tub  of  mine. 

I  love  at  Gothic  prejudice  to  rail, 

And  all  the  colored  ribbons  of  court  powers  ; 
But,  stranger  to  the  hot  politic  gale,        ,  : 

My  cap  of  freedom  is  a  crown  of  flowers. 

Diogenes,  r 

'Neath  cloak  of  thine,  ., 

Free  and  content,  I  sit  and  drink  at  ease. 

Diogenes, 
'Neath  cloak  of  thine, 
Free  and  content,  I  roll  this  tub  of  mine. 


When  to  divide  the  world  they  've  got  a  task, 
.  Some  potentates  may  cheat  or  cheated  be  ; 


^o 


THE  NEW  DIOGENES. 


I  am  not  going  all  around  to  ask  ; 

If  into  my  tub's  business  they  will  see. 

Diogenes, 
'Neath  cloak  of  thine, 
Free  and  content,  I  sit  and  drink  at  ease. 

Diogenes, 
'Neath  cloak  of  thine. 
Free  and  content,  I  roll  this  cask  of  mine. 


Where  satire  leads,  I  am  not  ignorant ; 

The  pompous  trappings  of  the  court  I  shun ; 
Their  honors  vain,  I  'm  too  inclined  to  taunt ; 

When  kings  are  near,  I  fear  me  for  my  sun. 


Diogenes,  ' 

'Neath  cloak  of  thine, 
.     Free  and  content,  I  sit  and  drink  at  ease. 


THE  NEW  DIOGENES.  yt 

Diogenes, 
'Neath  cloak  of  thine, 
Free  and  content,  I  roll  this  cask  of  mine. 

Through  modern  Athens,  lantern  in  my  hand, 
To  seek  a  man,  is  labor  fine,  I  know  ; 

But  when  night  sees  my  lantern's  rays  expand, 
*Tis  then  my  torch,  while  on  love  quests  I  go. 

Diogenes, 
'Neath  cloak  of  thine. 
Free  and  content,  I  sit  and  drink  at  ease. 

Diogenes, 
'Neath  cloak  of  thine, 
Free  and  content,  I  roll  this  tub  of  mine. 

Exempt  from  tax,  deserter  from  the  ranks,     ' 
I  still,  'tis  said,  with  public  virtues  shine  ; 

For  if  they  wanted  tubs  for  vintage  tanks. 
Without  a  murmur  I  would  lend  them  mine. 


If 2  THE  NEW  DIOGENES. 

Diogenes, 
'Neath  cloak  of  thine, 
Free  and  content,  I  sit  and  drink  at  ease. 

Diogenes, 
'Neath  cloak  of  thine. 
Free  and  content,  I  roll  this  tub  of  mine. 


A  TREATISE  ON   POLITICS. 

■  Traits  de  politique.  ^ 

The  Hundred  Days,  1815. 

[This  song  and  that  of  the  King  of  Yvetot  effectually 
disprove  any  idea  that  Beranger  was  either  a  blind  or  ser- 
vile partisan  of  Napoleon.  The  returned  Emperor,  here 
under  the  sobriquet  of  Lise,  is  cleverly  counselled  by  the 
poet  against  the  evils  of  ambition.] 

T    ISE  1  who  reignest  by  the  grace 
Of  God,  who  equals  all  at  last. 
Thy  beauty,  which  hath  peerless  place, 

A  crowd  of  rivals  chaineth  fast ; 
But  wide  howe'er  may  be  thy  rule, 

It  is  the  French  who  love  profess  ; 
Let 's,  laughing,  put  thy  faults  to  school, 

For  thy  good  subjects'  happiness. 

How  many  belles,  and  princes  great, 
Love  to  abuse  their  powers  v^st ; 


X 


74 


A    TREA  TISE  ON  POLITICS. 


How  many  a  lover,  many  a  state, 
Is  driven  to  despair  at  lajt. 

Fear  lest  some  dread  revolt  from  thee 
May  to  thy  boudoir  gain  access. 

Lise,  abjure  all  tyranny  ! 
For  thy  good  subjects'  happiness. 

By  undue  coquetry  made  blind, 

Fair  women  are  like  conquerors  too, 
Who  leave  their  country  far  behind 

A  hundred  nations  to  subdue. 
Oh,  terrible  coquettes  are  these  1 

Don't  imitate  their  vain  excess  ; 
Go  no  more  after  conquests,  Lise, 

For  thy  good  subjects'  happiness. 


Thanks  to  the  courtiers  full  of  zeal, 
The  approach  to  potentates  doth  lie 

Less  easy,  than  to  a  belle  to  steal 
Under  an  ever  jealous  eye. 


A    TREA  TISE  ON  POLITICS. 


75 


But  on  thy  couch,  that  throne  of  peace, 
Where  Pleasure  rules  by  laws  express, 

Be  aye  accessible,  O  Lise  ! 
For  thy  good  subjects'  happiness. 

Lise,  kings  in  vain  do  us  assure 

They  hold  their  patents  from  the  skies  ; 
As  also  thou,  by  nature  pure, 

From  Heaven  the  right  to  charm  all  eyes. 
When  to  such  hands  as  thine,  from  ours 

The  sceptre  goes  in.  trustfulness. 
From  us  thou  still  must  hold  its  powers, 

For  thy  good  subjects'  happiness. 

That  loved  thou  may'st  be  without  cease. 

Take  to  thy  heart  these  verities  ; 
Become  a  good  princess,  Lise  ! 

And  respect  our  liberties. 
May  Love,  who  doth  the  roses  reap. 

Bright  wreaths  upon  thy  forehead  press. 
And  long  thy  crown  in  safety  keep, 

For  thy  good  subjects'  happiness  ! 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  YOUNG  LADIES. 

Le  Education  dcs  demoiselles, 

A     FINE  girl's  teacher,  I  must  say, 
Monsieur  de  F6n6Ion  is, — -pshaw  ! 
'Tis  mass  and  needlework  alway. 
He  's  but  a  simpleton,  mamma. 
Balls,  concerts,  and  the  newest  play 

Instruct  us  better  far  than  he  ; 
Tra,  la,  la,  la,  we  maidens  gay, 
Tra,  la,  la,  la,  so  schooled  are  we  I 

Let  others  'broidery  do,  mamma ; 

But  I  '11  to  my  piano  get, 
To  sing  an  air  from  Armida, 

My  music  master  in  duet. 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  YOUNG  LADIES, 


77 


I  seem  to  feel  the  fiery  ray 
Of  R6naud's  love  aflame  in  me  ; 

Tra,  la,  la,  la,  we  maidens  gay, 
Tra,  la,  la,  la,  so  schooled  are  we  1 


Let  all  who  will  book-keeping  know, 

Mamma,  then  for  an  hour  or  two 
I  '11  to  my  dancing-master  go, 

And  learn  voluptuous  steps  to  do. 
These  lengthy  gowns  my  feet  delay, 

A  shorter  cut 's  the  thing  for  me  ; 
Tra,  la,  la,  la,  we  maidens  gay, 

Tra,  la,  la,  la,  so  schooled  are  we ! 


Old  prudes  may  suit  my  sister  Nell ; 

Mamma,  I  '11  to  the  gallery  go  ; 
I  draw  already  wondrous  well 

The  curves  that  round  Apollo  flow. 


>8  THE  EDUCA TION  OF  YOUNG  LADIES, 

Good  gracious  !  what  fine  figures  they  ! 

Such  handsome  nakedness  to  see  ! 
Tra,  la,  la,  la,  we  maidens  gay, 

Tra,  la,  la,  la,  so  schooled  are  we  ! 

Mamma,  'tis  time  that  I  were  wed ; 

Regard  to  custom  one  must  pay ; 
My  dearest  soul,  'tis  truth  I  've  said  ; 

I  vovv,  the  case  needs  no  delay. 
Strange  things  the  world  does  of  me  say, 

But  winks  at  all  this  laughingly  ; 
Tra,  la,  la,  la,  we  maidens  gay, 

Tra,  la,  la,  la,  so  schooled  are  we  ! 


THOU   HATEFUL  SPRING! 

M audit  Prin temps  ! 

T?ROM  mine,  through  all  the  wintry  weather, 

I  've  seen  her  at  her  casement  stand. 
Lovers,  though  each  unknown  to  other, 

The  air  across  our  kisses  fanned. 
A-past  the  leafless  lindens  peeping, 

With  lovers'  looks  we  filled  our  days. 
Thou  art  again  their  shade  repeating ; 

Thou  hateful  Spring  !  wilt  thou  return  always  ? 


I  've  lost  her  in  their  deepening  shadows, 

That  dazzling  xngel  over  there  ; 
Feeding,  when  frost  hath  clothed  the  meadows, 

With  crumbs  of  bread  the  birds  of  air. 
They  call  to  her,  their  frisk  together 

The  signal  unto  love  displays  ; 


8o  THOU  HATEFUL  SPRING t 

Ah  !  nothing 's  like  the  snowy  weather  ! 
Thou  hateful  Spring  !  wilt  thou  return  always  ? 

Without  thee,  her  I  'd  still  be  seeing, 

V/hen  she  doth  from  sweet  sleep  arise. 
Fresh  as  they  paint  Aurora,  fleeing 

To  ope  Day's  curtains  in  the  skies. 
At  eve  I  'd  say,  still  towards  her  turning, 

**  My  star  yet  shines  across  the  maze. 
She  sleeps  !  no  more  her  lamp  is  burning  ": 

Thou  hatpful  Spring  !  wilt  thou  return  always  ? 

For  winter  Ftill  my  heart  is  praying  ; 

Ah  !  how  I  long  to  hear  again 
The  lightly  bounding  hail  a-playing 

A  tattoo  on  the  window-pane. 
Thy  olden  empire  doth  but  cheat  me  ; 

What  are  thy  zephyrs,  blooms,  long  days? 
I  have  no  more  her  smile  to  greet  me. 

Thou  hateful  Spring  !  wilt  thon  return  always  ? 


THE  BROKEN   FIDDLE. 

Le  violon  bris/. 

/^  OME  here,  my  poor  dog,  faithful  beast; 

Eat  away,  never  mind  my  despair. 
Here 's  yet  this  last  cake  for  our  feast ; 
To-morrow  on  black  bread  we  '11  fare. 


The  strangers  who  won  by  a  ruse, 
Last  eve  met  me  this  valley  in  ; 
"  Some  dancing  tune  play," — I  refuse, — 
Then  one  broke  my  poor  violin. 


It  the  villagers*  orchestra  made. 

No  more  are  our  fetes,  happy  days  ! 
Whoe'er  shall  dance  now  'neath  the  shade  ? 

Who  Love's  quenchless  fame  again  raise? 


Ill' 


83  Tf/E  BROKEN  FIDDLE. 

How  oft  at  the  sweet  dawn  of  day, 
With  a  vigorous  scrape  of  my  bow, 

The  bride  I  've  informed  by  my  play 
The  young  bridegroom's  train  was  below. 

To  our  priests,  who  would  dare  to  draw  near, 
Our  dancing  did  no  offence  bring. 

Our  gaiety  spread  without  fear  ; 
Had  smoothed  e'en  the  brow  of  a  king. 

Though  it  preluded  strains  in  our  fame 
To  the  songs  it  Inspired  us  to  make. 

Who  *d  think  that  these  strangers  who  came, 
Would  ever  revenge  on  it  take  ? 

Come  here,  my  poor  dog,  faithful  beast ; 

Eat  away,  never  mind  my  despair. 
Here 's  yet  this  last  cake  for  our  feast ; 

To-morrow  on  black  bread  we  '11  fare. 


THE  BROKEN  FIDDLE, 


^ 


How  long  will  the  Sunday  seem  now> 
In  barn  or  'neaih  elm-tree  shade  ? 

Will  God  vintaf.e  blessing  allow, 
If  no  more  is  my  violin  played  ? 

Long  hours  it  once  did  relax ; 

From  poor  folks  could  care  away  drive ; 
From  storms,  from  the  great,  from  the  tax, 

It  alone  could  our  hamlet  revive. 

It  charmed  bitter  hatred  to  mirth  ; 

Of  many  a  tear  stopped  the  flow  ; 
There  never  was  sceptre  on  earth 

Has  done  so  much  good  as  my  bow. 


This  foe,  though,  whom  forth  we  must  chase, 
My  courage  restores  by  this  stroke. 

My  hands  shall  with  musket  replace 
The  poor  violin  which  they  broke. 


u 


THE  BROKEN  FIDDLE. 


So  friends  that  I  'm  parted  from  now, 
One  day,  if  I  perish,  will  say, 

Barbarians  he  would  not  allow 
O'er  our  ruins  to  dance  and  be  gay. 


Come  here,  my  poor  dog,  faithful  beast ; 

Eat  away,  never  mind  my  despair. 
Here  *s  yet  this  last  cake  for  our  feast ; 

To-morrow  on  black  bread  we  *11  fare,  \ 


THE  HOLY  ALLIANCE  OF  NATIONS. 


La  sainte  Alliance  des  Peuples, 


[Song  sung  at  Liancourt,  at  the  fete  given  by  the  Due  de 
Rochefoucauld,  to  celebrate  the  evacuation  of  French  ter- 
ritory in  the  month  of  October,  1818.] 


T  HAVE  seen  Peace  descend  upon  the  earth, 
Scattering  her  breast  with  flowers,  and  corn,  and 
gold; 
The  air  was  calm,  and  of  the  god  of  wrath 

The  lurid  bolts,  she  stifled  and  controlled. 
Ah  !  said  she,  **  Men,  in  courage  equal  all, 

English,  Russ,  Belgian,  German,  Gallic  land ; 
Ye  nations,  join  one  holy  compact  all ; 
Give  each  to  each  the  hand  ! 


86  THE  HOLY  ALLIANCE  OF  NATIONS. 

■■■'■■"        '  ■    ■       ■     ■!■■    ■         I  — I..     ---      -■■■M.  I    BIMI    ■  I    —1     ■■!■■■  ■  !■■■■■■  ■■■       — ^^— » 

"  Poor  mortals,  wearied  by  such  endless  hate, 

Ye  never  taste  a  sleep  that 's  free  from  care  ; 
Each  from  this  globe  can  carve  a  just  estate ; 

Each  of  you  may  the  genial  sunshine  share  ; 
Each  of  you,  to  the  car  of  power  a  thrall, 

Ye  quit  the  path  where  happy  dreams  expand  ; 
Ye  nations,  join  one  holy  compact  all ; 

Give  each  to  each  the  hand  ! 

"  Unto  your  neighbor's  doors  ye  carry  flames  ; 

The  North  wind  blows,  in  flames  your  roof-trees 
glow, 
And  when  her  coolness  the  scorched  earth  reclaims, 

Your  maimed  and  weary  arms  forsake  the  plough. 
Within  the  line  where  each  State's  boundaries  fall, 

No  harvest 's  pure  from  blood  that  soaks  the  land. 
Ye  nations,  join  one  holy  compact  all ; 

Give  each  to  each  the  hand  ! 

"  Those  rulers  in  your  cities  wrapped  in  flame, 
At  end  of  their  disdainful  sceptres  dare 


THE  HOLY  ALLIANCE  OF  NATIONS. 


87 


Those  souls  to  mark,  to  count,  and  to  proclaim, 
Whom  bloody  triumphs  portioned  to  their  care  ; 

Ye  weak  ones  sink,  ye  pass,  defenceless  fall  I 
From  heavy  yoke,  'neath  cruel  yoke  trepanned  ; 

Ye  nations,  join  one  holy  compact  all ; 
Give  each  to  each  the  hand  ! 

"  That  Mars  may  not  in  vain  arrest  his  course, 

To  aid  your  stricken  land  wise  statutes  bring  ; 
Drain  ye  no  more  your  life-blood  from  its  source, 

For  mighty  conqueror,  for  ungrateful  king  ; 
Ban  the  false  stars  and  make  their  influence  pall ; 

Frightful  to-day,  they  pale  to-morrow  stand ; 
Ye  nations,  join  one  holy  compact  all ; 

Give  each  to  each  the  hand  ! 


"  Yes,  once  more  free,  let  the  faint  earth  respire  ; 

Veil  now  the  past,  your  eyes  now  forward  turn  ; 
Sow  blithe  your  fields  to  accents  of  the  lyre  ; 

Incense  to  arts  now  for  your  country  burn : 


THE  HOLY  ALL  ' ANCE  OF  NA  TIONS. 


Then  Peace  on  Plenty's  breast  shall  smiling  fall, 
And  cull  the  sweet  fruits  of  this  marriage  band. 

Ye  nations,  join  one  holy  compact  all ; 
Give  each  to  each  the  hand ! " 

So  spake  she  then,  that  virgin  ever  blest. 

More  than  one  king  her  words  repeated  o'er  ; 
Fair  as  in  spring,  were  thoir  glad  realms  dressed. 

Autumn  with  flowers  adorned  the   Loves  once 
more. 
Flow  good  French  wine  !   for  him,  whom  back  we 
call ; 

O'er  the  frontier  the  Exile  seeks  his  land. 
Ye  nations,  join  one  holy  compact  all ; 

Give  each,  to  each  the  hand  ! 


THE  MARQUIS  OF  CARABAS. 

Le  Marquis  de  Carabas, 

November,  i8i6. 

n^HIS  old  Marquis  treats  us,  see  ! 

As  if  a  conquered  race  were  we. 
On  his  raw-boned  charger  gaunt 
He  comes  home  from  far-off  haunt. 
Toward  his  castle  old 
Comes  this  noble  mould, 
Waving,  short  of  breath, 
Guiltless  sword  of  death  ! 
Hats  off !  hats  off  !  hurrah  !  hurrah ! 
Hail !  the  Marquis  of  Carabas  ! 


(f 


Almoner  and  seneschal, 
Liegemen,  serfs,  and  vassals  all  I 


THE  MARQUIS  OF  CAR  ABAS, 


I,  I  only,  by  my  word," 

Said  he,  "have  my  king  restored. 

Should  he  not  restore 

Rights  my  rank  once  wore, 

He,  by  Jove  !  with  me 

A  fine  game  will  see." 

Hats  off  !  hats  off  !  hurrah  !  hurrah  ! 

Hail !  the  Marquis  of  Carabas  ! 


"  Some,  inventing  bad  report, 
A  miller's  name  with  mine  consort ; 
My  line  its  lineage  won 
Of  yore  from  great  Short  Pepin's  son. 
Faith,  from  my  device, 
Is  my  house  more  nice. 
And  my  blood  more  pure 
Than  the  king's,  I  'm  sure." 
Hats  off  !  hats  off  !  hurrah  !  hurrah 
Hail !  the  Marquis  of  Carabas  ! 


THE  MARQUIS  OF  CAR  ABAS. 


91 


"  Who  shall  stop  my  good  report  ? 
The  Marchioness  sits  high  at  court. 
Bishop  some  fine  day  to  be, 
My  youngest  son,  the  court  shall  see. 
Son,  the  baron,  you. 
Though  you  funk,  'tis  true, 
Shall  have  crosses  free. 
Shall  at  least  have  three." 
Hats  off  !  hats  off  !  hurrah  !  hurrah  ! 
Hail !  the  Marquis  of  Carabas  ! 


**  All  at  peace  then  let  us  be  ! 
But  taxes  they  dare  name  to  me. 
Naught  a  noble  owes  the  state  ; 
For  its  own  good  he  was  create. 
Thanks  to  my  supply. 
Arms  and  ramparts  high, 
I,  my  mind  can  well 
To  the  prefect  tell." 


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THE  MARQUIS  OF  C ARAB  AS, 


Hats  ofif !  hats  off  !  hurrah  !  hurrah  ! 
Hail !  the  Marquis  of  Carabas  ! 


II 


Priests,  for  you  we  vengeance  take ; 

Of  tithes  with  us  division  make  ! 

You,  ye  beastly  people,  all  * 

Again  to  feudal  burdens  fall ! 

We  've  sole  right  of  chase  ;      '     "  • 

And  your  sprouts  of  grace, 

We  will  them  requite     ' 

With  seniorial  right." 

Hats  off  !  hats  off !  hurrah  !  hurrah  ! 

Hail !  the  Marquis  of  Carabas  ! 


**  Curate,  thou  thy  duty  do 
And  wave  for  me  thy  censer  too  I 
You,  my  pages,  varlets,  thrash  ' 
All  the  serfs  and  worthless  trash  ! 
From  ancestors  old, 
I  these  high  rights  hold  ; 


THE  MARQUIS  OF  CARABAS. 


93 


They  in  turn  shall  go 

To  my  heirs  below." 

Hats  off  !  hats  off  !  hurrah  !  hurrah  ! 

Hail !  the  Marquis  of  Carabas  1 


i-  7     T 

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nfff  r 


'  1-  *•■  .'• 


r'  t 


IF  A  LITTLE  BIRD  I  WERE. 
Si  jViais  petit  oiseau. 

1817.      ' 

T    WHO  only  to  the  fair 

Would  a  passing  tribute  pay, 
Envy  to  the  wings  do  bear 

Of  the  birds  so  free  and  gay. 
How  far  off  their  journeys  lie ! 

All  things  lure  them  to  the  slcy,^ 
The  heaven 's  fair,  and  soft  the  air ; 

I  'd  swiftly,  swiftly,  swiftly  fly. 
If  a  little  bird  I  were. 

I  then,  taught  by  Philomel 
Her  sweet  accents  to  prolong, 


IF  A  LITTLE  BIRD  I  WERE. 


if 


Would  the  rustic  burden  swell 
Of  the  maiden's  milking-song ; 

Then  to  hermit  old  would  I, 
t      Who,  no  holy-water  nigh,   ' 

'Yields  his  cloak  at  poor  man's  prayer— 
I  'd  swiftly,  swiftly,  swiftly  fly, 

If  a  little  bird  I  were. 

Then  to  some  green  grove  would  I, 

Where  wild  topers  full  of  glee, 
Ravished  with  my  piping  high. 

E'er  would  beauty  toasting  be. 
There,  my  favorite  song  I  'd  try. 

For  the  warriors  left  to  die  ; 
Would  their  hamlet  cheer  from  care. 

I  *d  swiftly,  swiftly,  swiftly  fly, 
If  a  little  bird  I  were. 


Then  to  turrets  I  would  spring. 
Where  the  wretched  captives  lie, 


96 


IF  A  LITTLE  BIRD  I  WERE, 


Would  to  them,  with  hidden  wing, 
Utter  sweet  and  plaintive  cry. 

One  might  on  my  visit  smile, 
Another  dream  on  bench  the  while 

Of  his  cradle  meadows  fair. 
I  *d  swiftly,  swiftly,  swiftly  fly, 

If  a  little  bird  I  were. 

Then  to  charm,  my  wings  I  'd  ply, ' 

Some  king's  heart  a-wearying ; 
On  a  peaceful  olive  nigh 

I  to  him  my  songs  would  sing. 
Where'er  weary  exiles  sigh  "' 

With  a  homeward-yearning  eye. 
From  that  tree  a  branch  I  'd  bear. 

I  'd  swiftly,  swiftly,  swiftly  fly, 
If  a  little  bird  I  were,     ; 


Then  to  where  is  born  the  dawn. 
From  you  wicked  ones  I  'd  flee  ; 


IP  A   LITTLE  BIRD  I  WERE. 


Unless  Love,  still  questing  gone, 
In  his  net  surprises  me  ; 

Should  this  fowler  naught  goes  by, 
In  some  heaving  bosom  lie, 

I  am  caught  in  a  new  snare  ; 
There  I  'd  swiftly,  swiftly  fiy. 

If  a  little  bird  I  were. 


97 


i 


■      ".  «  '.      . 


X    ,.»•*'.  '■■••  :  ■       i    •.  .'>• 


-  THE  PLEBEIAN.       , 

» 

Le  Vilain,  .   '; 

*    [This  song  is  in  answer  to  some  who  accused  Beranger  of 
inconsistency  in  using  the  aristocratic  de  before  his  name.] 

TTOW'S  this?    I  hear  some  ill  profess 

That  de  before  my  name  doth  go  ; 
"  And  are  you  of  the  old  noblesse  ?" 
I,  noble  ?    Faith,  good  sirs,  oh  no  ! 
I  no  chivalric  arms  can  show  ; 

I  ne*er  have  vellum-patent  worn  ; 
To  love  my  country's  all  I  knew : 

I  am  low-born,  aye,  most  iow-bom  ; 
I  am  low-born. 
Low-born,  low-born  ! 


THE  PLEBEIAN, 


99 


Ah  !  ne'er  a  de  my  spirit  bore ; 

For  of  my  blood,  if  truth  will  tell, 
A  noble's  yok^  my  sires  wore. 

And  cursed  his  despot  ruling  well. 
His  power  was  on  an  ancient  base, 

He  was  the  millstone,  they  the  corn. 
He  ground  them  well,  his  noble  Grace, 

I  am  low-born,  aye,  most  low-born  ; 
I  am  low-born, 
Low-born,  low-born  ! 

My  grandsires,  ne'er  on  land  of  theirs 

From  their  poor  servants  wrung  a  tear. 
Never  their  noble  scimetars 

The  people  in  the  woods  need  fear. 
Not  one,  when  tired  of  his  campaign, 

Did  Merlin's  art  in  robes  adorn 
As  Chamberlain  of Charlemagne. 

I  am  low-born,  aye,  most  low-born  ; 
I  am  low-bom,  . 

Low-bom,  low-bora ! 


xoo  THE  PLEBEIAN, 


My  brave  ancestors  ne'er  took  part 

In  civil  broil  and  party  din  ; 
Nor  in  our  towns  with  traitor's  art 

Brought  they  the  English  leopard  in  ; 
And  when  the  Church  by  its  Intrigue, 

Of  its  true  strength  the  State  had  shorn, 
Not  one  of  them  e'er  signed  the  league. 

I  am  low-born,  aye,  most  low-born  ; 
I  am  low-born, 
Low-born,  low-born ! 

Let  me  then  'neath  my  banner  be. 

You,  sirs,  who  nose  to  windward  run ! 
Nobles  by  button-holery, 

"Who  incense  every  rising  sun. 
I  honor  but  a  common  race  ; 

I  flatter  none  but  the  forlorn, 
I  *ve  a  kind  heart,  however  base. 

I  am  low-born,  aye,  most  low-bom, 
I  am  low-born. 
Low-born,  low-born ! 


MY  VOCATION. 

Ma  vocation. 

'yHROWN  upon  this  ball, 
Ugly,  suffering,  slight ; 
Crowded,  pushed  by  all, 

Because  I  lack  of  height ; 
From  my  lips  takes  wing 

A  plaint,  aye  new  begun  ; 
The  good  God  tells  me,  "  Sing, 

Sing,  poor  little  one  "  ! 


Wealth's  chariot  dashes  near, 
And  passing,  splashes  me  ; 

Its  power  and  pelf,  with  fear 
Of  insolence,  I  see; 


i0» 


My  VOCATION. 


From  its  prideful  sting 

Shelter  have  I  none  : 
The  good  God  tells  me,  "  Sing, 

Sing,  poor  little  one  "  ! 

Dread  lest  I  lose  all 

Poisons  all  my  joy  ; 
'Neath  the  chain  I  crawl 

Of  a  mean  employ  ; 
Freedom  *s  a  fine  thing, 

But  I  am  hunger's  son  : 
The  good  God  tells  me,  **  Sing, 

Sing,  poor  little  one  "  ! 


Love  in  my  distress 

Deigned  to  stand  me  by  ; 
But  with  youthfulness 

Forth  I  see  him  fly. 
My  heart  in  vain  I  wring, 

By  beauty's  wiles  undone  ; 


MV  VOCATION. 


103 


The  good  God  tells  me,  **  Sing, 
Sing,  poor  little  one  "  ! 


To  sing,  or  I  am  wrong,  1 

Is  my  lot  here  below  ; 
Will  those  who  love  my  song 

Not  love  me  also  ? 
When  ki  the  enchanted  ring. 

Where  wine  in  mirth  doth  run, 
The  good  God  tells  me,  "  Sing, 

Sing,  poor  little  one  "  ! 


i  MY  REPUBLIC. 

Ma  r^publique, 

* 

T?OR  republics  I  've  a  taking 
j!  |!  Since  of  kings  I  've  seen  enough  ; 

ji  ij  One,  my  own,  I  '11  be  a-making, 

Give  it  good  laws  quantum  suf. 
Drink  *s  the  only  trade  that 's  stable  ; 

Nought 's  our  judge  but  Gaiety  ; 
All  my  realm  is  but  a  table  ; 
Its  device  is  Liberty. 

All  my  friends,  take  up  your  glasses  ! 

Here  the  senate  meets  to-day. 
At  the  first,  quick  sentence  passes, 
lllji  Banish  ^ww«/ now  al way  ! 


\\ 


m 


MV  REPUBLIC.  xoj 


l3 


Banish  I  what  !  ah  !  let  forever  ; 

That  word  unknown  with  us  be  ; 
Ennui  born  among  us  ?    Never  ! 

Pleasure  follows  Liberty. 

Joy,  with  Luxury  disagpreeing, 

Orders  all  excess  to  flee.  ^ 

We,  our  thoughts  from  fetters  freeing, 

Answer  Bacchus'  mild  decree. 
Let  each  give  as  he  professes 

Honor  to  his  own  deity  ; 
Who  so  wills  may  go  tc  masses ; 

Such,  I  hold,  is  Liberty. 

The  noblesse  are  too  aggressive  ; 

Let  your  great  ancestors  rest. 
No  more  titles  even  to  guests  give. 

Who  may  laugh  or  drink  the  best.    '. 
Should  a  traitor  come  between  us, 


a  Reaching  out  for  royalty, 


zo6  MV  REPUBLIC. 


M 


Sink  the  Caesar  in  Silenus 
And  preserve  our  Liberty  ! 

Drink  our  fair  republic's  station  ! 

Settled  soon  our  state  shall  be : 
But  this  so  pacific  nation 

Fears  e'en  now  an  enemy. 
'Tis  Lisette,  thai;  's  us  alarming ; 

In  voluptuous  bonds  are  we  ; 
She  will  reign,  for  she  is  charming ; 

All  is  up  with  Liberty  ! 


THE  SWALLOWS. 

Les  hirondelles, 

/^^APTIVE  on  the  Moorish  main, 

Bowed  'neath  chains,  a  warrior  cried, 
*'  Birds,  I  welcome  you  again, 
Enemies  of  winter's  pride  ! 
Swallows  !  followed  by  Hope's  glance 

In  this  burning  clime  alway, 
Doubtless  ye  have  quitted  France  ; 
Of  my  fair  land  have  ye  no  word  to  say  ? 


Ye,  three  years  did  I  conjure, 
Ye  would  some  token  bring  to  me 

Of  that  vale,  where  I,  obscure, 
Dreamed  my  future  sweet  would  be. 


iel  THE  SWALLOWS. 

Where  the  pearly  winding  tide 
Flows  'neath  lilies  bright  as  day, 

Ye  have  seen  my  cot  abide  ; 
Of  that  sweet  vale  have  ye  no  word  to  say  ? 

One  of  you  perchance  was  born 

Within  the  roof  my  childhood  knew  ; 
There  is  a  mother  left  forlorn  ; 

Her  sorrowing  love  is  known  to  you. 
Dying,  still  the  thought  she  keeps, 

My  steps  are  ever  on  the  way  ; 
She  listens,  and  again  she  weeps  ; 

Of  her  fond  love  have  ye  no  word  to  say  ? 

Is  she,  my  sister,  married  yet  ? 

Say,  have  you  seen  the  festive  throng 
Of  our  youths  in  circle  met. 

The  nuptials  pledging  in  their  song  ? 
Those  friends  of  youth,  whose  love  I  earned, 

Who  've  followed  me  through  many  a  fray, 


THE  SWALLOWS, 


109 


Have  all  they  to  their  homes  returned  ? 
Of  all  those  friends  have  ye  no  word  to  say  ? 


O'er  their  bodies  may  the  foe 

Now  to  our  vale  his  passage  take  ; 
Beneath  my  roof  as  master  go, 

My  sister's  bonds  of  wedlock  break. 
All  are  into  fetters  thrown  ; 

No  m.ore  for  me  shall  mother  pray ; 
Swallows  from  my  country  flown, 

Of  her  deep  griefs  have  ye  no  word  to  say  ? 


111 


WINTER. 

Lhiver, 

nPHE  blithe  birds  have  flown  away ; 
Winter  after  them  doth  chase  ; 

Over  field  and  dwelling  place 
Doth  his  icy  mantle  lay. 
On  my  window-panes  that  shine 
He  doth  brilliant  flowers  design  ; 
Makes  my  doors  to  creak  and  whine ; 

Gives  my  dog  a  shivering  spell. 
Rouse  yourselves,  no  loitering  make  ; 
Slumbering  coals  from  ashes  wake  ; 

Let 's  be  warm,  let's  warm  us  well ! 


WINTER, 


O  good  traveller,  you  *re  too  bold  ; 

Back  now  to  your  family  ; 

For  by  my  fire's  sparks  I  see 
Still  more  ardent  grows  the  cold.  .. 
Yet  more  brave  I  face  its  frown  ; 
Rose,  in  furred  and  quilted  gown, 
'Gainst  the  frost-king's  icy  crown, 

Says  she  '11  as  my  shelter  dwell. 
Rose,  your  hands  will  surely  freeze  ; 
Take  your  place  upon  my  knees  ; 

Let  *s  be  warm,  let  *s  warm  us  well ' 


Fast  the  shades  speed  on,  and  night 
Rolls  her  chariot  o'er  the  snow. 
Rose,  we  of  Love's  favor  know  ; 

He  from  us  the  day  doth  fright. 

But  a  couple  comes  this  way, 

Joyous  friend  and  beauty  gay  ; 

Enter  both,  no  watchword  say  : 


112  WINTER. 


Pleasure  does  not  fear  you  '11  tell. 
There  's  less  cold  than  tenderness, 
As  around  the  fire  we  press  : 

Let 's  be  warm,  let 's  warm  us  well ! 

Our  caresses  now  have  ceased, 

From  the  intruding  lamp-light  fled  ; 

Rose  doth  quick  the  table  spread, 
And  we  gaily  share  the  feast. 
Our  blithe  friend  doth  now  prevail ; 
Tells  a  famous  brigand's  tale  ; 
Of  a  spectre  grim  and  pale 

Makes  a  faithful  chronicle  ; 
Whilst  the  cup  glows  ruby  fine 
From  the  fire  that  licks  the  wine  : 

Let 's  be  warm,  let 's  warm  us  well ! 

'Neath  thy  ice-flakes,  Winter  dark, 
Nature  fair  doth  buried  lie  : 
Let  the  north  wind  grumble  by, 

Ne'er  to  him  our  songs  shall  hark. 


WINTER. 


tx3 


Fancy,  led  by  Love  elate, 
Forms  a  world  beside  the  grate, 
Such  as  the  sweet  heavens  create  ; 

Where  in  Wealth's  stead  Love  doth  dwell. 
All  our  doors  and  windows  close 
Till  again  returns  the  rose. 

Let 's  be  warm,  let 's  warm  us  well ! 


THE  HUNTER  AND  THE  MILKMAID. 

Le  chasseur  et  la  laiti/re, 

nPHE  lark,  her  morning  song  has  made, 

Chanting  the  dawn  of  rosy  day  ; 
Follow  the  hunter  'neath  the  shade, 
Milkmaid,  he  of  love  would  say. 
Trip  lightly  through  the  dews,  my  dear ; 
He  '11  cull  thee  flowers  of  vernal  prime  ; 
"  No,  hunter,  I  my  mother  fear  ; 
I  do  not  wish  to  lose  my  time." 

Thy  mother  and  her  goat  so  true, 
Far  by  yon  bank  are  loitering  ; 

Listen  to  this  sonnet  new, 
That  damsels  at  the  castle  sing. 


IV 


THE  HUNTER  AND   THE  MILKMAID,        115 

The  girl  who  chants  this  lay,  secures 
The  most  inconstant  to  its  rhyme. 
**  Hunter !  I  know  one  sweet  as  yours  ;    ; 
I  do  not  wish  to  lose  my  time." 


Then  learn  from  me  to  tell  the  tale  " 

Of  a  jealous  baron  dead, 
Who  did  to  his  death-vault  hale 

The  beauty  whom  in  life  he  wed. 
When  one  at  midnight  this  shall  tell,  ' 

The  hearers  quake  till  matin  chime  ; 
**  Hunter  !  I  know  that  spectre  well  \\ 

I  do  not  wish  to  lose  my  time." 

I  can  teach  thee,  then,  the  prayer, 
That  the  furious  wolf  can  charm, 

'Gainst  the  witches*  art  prepare, 
Turn  from  us  the  eye  of  harm. 

Dread  lest  some  old  hag  in  need 
Cast  a  spell  upon  your  prime  ; 


•«* 


tltf        THE  HUNTER  AND   THE  MILKMAID. 

"  Hunter !  have  I  not  my  beads? 
I  do  not  wish  to  lose  my  time." 

Ah,  well !  see  this  cross  inlaid  ; 

Count  the  rubies  rich  that  shine  ; 
On  the  breast  of  some  young  maid, 

'T  would  to  her  all  eyes  incline. 
Take  it,  nor  for  cost  allow  ; 

But  note,  I  wait  its  worth  sublime. 
"  'Tis  lovely,  ah  !  I  hear  you  now  ! 

Truly,  tAis  doth  not  lose  me  time." 


-•«»•-•  • 


THE  FIFTY  CROWNS. 

Les  cinquanie  /cus,  ^ 

n^HANK  God  !  an  heirship  I  *m  conveyed, 

The  charming  trade 
For  me  was  made 
Of  an  annuitant. 
Labor's  abuse  I  now  defy  ; 
Fifty  crowns  have  I, 
Fifty  crowns  have  I, 
Fifty  crowns  have  I  of  rent ! 

* 

Friends,  I  've  of  the  land  full  swing : 

I  've  everything 

Just  like  a  king, 

If  glory  is  my  bent.  \ 


«st  THE  FIFTY  CROh  uS. 

Honors  on  me  crowded  lie  ; 
Fifty  crowns  have  I, 
Fifty  crowns  have  I, 
Fifty  crowns  have  I  of  rent ! 

To  use  my  rich  man's  right  of  way, 

Without  delay, 

On  cabriolet 

Of  foraj  most  elegant, 

My  dazzled  creditors  I  '11  fly  ; 

Fifty  crowns  have  I, 

Fifty  crowns  have  I, 

Fifty  crowns  have  I  of  rent ! 

Surenne  and  thy  hills,  adieu ! 
Now  Bordeaux, 
And  Mursaulx,   •        ^ 
Champagne  to  song  lent, 
I  shall  all  their  merits  try  ; 
Fifty  crowns  have  I, 


w 


THE  FIFTY  CROWNS. 


"9 


Fifty  crowns  have  I, 

Fifty  crowns  have  I  of  rent ! 

Liz,  my  dear  !  dress  and  be  gay. 

That  alway 

New  display 

Riches  may  invent. 

You  must  no  more  tinsel  buy  ; 

Fifty'  crowns  have  I, 

Fifty  crowns  have  I, 

Fifty  crowns  have  I  of  rent ! 


You  that  for  my  guests  I  hold, 

Friends  so  bold, 

Parents  old, 

Sister,  young,  piquante, 

On  dress,  lodging,  food  rely  ; 

Fifty  crowns  have  1, 

Fifty  crowns  have  I, 

Fifty  crowns  havs  I  of  rent ! 


xao  THE  FIFTY  CROWNS, 

Friends,  love,  ease,  good  wine,  I  seek ; 

You  one  week 

I  bespeak, 

Crown  my  good  intent. 

Stocks  shall  after  interest  fly  ; 

Fifty  crowns  have  I, 

Fifty  crowns  have  I, 

Fifty  crowns  have  I  of  rent  I 


THE  YOUNG  MUSE. 

La  jeune  muse, 

["  In  reply  to  some  verses  addressed  to  me  by  a  little  girl 
aged  twelve  years." — Note  of  B£f^nger. 

TT  T'HAT  !  you  for  verse  are  quitting 

The  pleasures  of  your  age  ! 
My  Muse,  whom  you  are  fiatt'ring, 

Doth  plight  the  Loves  her  gage. 
Children  are  the  Loves  too, 

Of  voice  most  sweet  and  fine  ; 
But  alas  !  twelve  years  belong  to  you, 

And  forty  years  are  mine  ! 


Why  talk  of  laurels  winning ; 
They  *re  watered  aye  with  tears  ; 


zaa 


THE   YOUNG  MUSE. 


Never  the  Muse  of  singing 
The  crown  of  glory  wears. 

One  flowery  prize  we  cling  to. 
The  pride  of  Spring  benign  ; 

But  alas  !  twelve  years  belong  to  you. 
And  forty  years  are  mine  ! 

Young  bird,  your  flight  be  taking 

The  grove  to  render  gay  ; 
Still  sweeter  songs  be  making 

To  charm  some  later  day. 
That  I  '11  inspire  the  strain  too. 

It  is  a  hope  divine  ; 
But  alas  !  twelve  years  belong  to  you, 

And  forty  years  are  mine  ! 


Then  to  crown  me  with  flowers, 
Yes,  ,  ou  '11  no  more  delight ; 

Within  fair  flattery's  bowers 
Your  genius  will  be  dight ; 


THE   YOUNG  MUSE. 


'MS 


Ah !  my  poor  incense  unto 
That  day  your  heart  incline  ; 

For  scarce  are  twenty  years  for  you, 
When  fifty  years  are  mine  \ 


FAREWELL  TO  THE  COUNTRY. 

Adieu  de  la  campagne, 
November,  1821. 

0  UN,  so  soft  at  the  decline  of  autumn  ! 

•  O    yellow   woods,    I  'm   with  you  yet  once 
more ! 

1  cannot  hope  that  hatred  e'er  will  pardon 

My  songs,  that  on  their  wings  too  swiftly  soar. 
In  this  retreat,  where  has  returned  the  zephyr, 

I  oft  of  coming  fame  to  dreaming  fell ; 
Deign  one  more  smile,  thou  vast  and  cloudless  aether ; 

Oh,  echoing  woods,  repeat  my  last  farewell ! 

Free  as  the  birds  amid  the  leafy  bower, 
Why  did  I  not  there  leave  my  songs  to  die  ; 


\i 


'FAREWELL   TO   THE  COUNTRY.  125 

But  wicked  hands  I  saw  my  France  deflower  ; 

Her  splendid  crest  beneath  their  yoke  did  lie. 
I  sent  my  shafts  of  satire  flying  >  hither, 

Though  Love  inspired  me  all  his  joys  to  tell. 
Deign  one  more  smile,  thou  vast  and  cloudless  aether ; 

Oh,  echoing  woods,  repeat  my  last  farewell ! 

E'en  doth  their  rage  against  my  pittance  lower ; 

They  to  the  court-room  drag  my  gaiety  ; 
They  with  a  holy  mask  their  vengeance  cover  ; 

What !  would  they  blush  my  honest  face  to  see  ? 
Ah  !  God  hath  not  their  hearts,  to  curse  me  eager ; 

Bigotry's  birth  is  of  the  gods  of  Hell. 
Deign  one  more  smile,  thou  vast  and  cloudless  aether ; 

Oh,  echoing  woods,  repeat  my  last  farewell ! 

If  I  o'er  tombs  have  reawakened  Glory,  - 

If  I  my  prayers  for  famous  soldiers  make. 

Have  I  for  gold,  before  the  feet  of  Victory, 
Encouraged  tyrants  down  their  states  to  break  ? 


taS 


FAREWELL   TO  THE  COUNTRY. 


Not  to  the  rising  sun  of  empire  either, 
Did  here  my  Muse  her  venal  praises  sell. 

Deign  one  more  smile,  thou  vast  and  cloudless  aether ; 
Oh,  echoing  woods,  repeat  my  last  farewell ! 


Let,  then,  in  hope  my  pride  of  soul  to  tame. 
Counting  my  chains,  Bellart  himself  amuse  ; 

To  the  eyes  of  France,  though  humbled  is  her  name, 
The  dungeon  gloom  irradiates  my  Muse. 

Hung  on  its  bars,  my  lyre  I  bequeathe  her ; 

•    Upon  it  there  the  eyes  of  Fame  shall  dwell. 

Deign  one  more  smile,  thou  vast  and  cloudless  aether ; 
Oh,  echoing  woods,  repeat  my  last  farewell ! 


At  least,  seek,  Philomel,  my  prison  wall ! 

Of  yore,  a  king  caused  all  those  ills  to  you. 
Away  ! — for  me  I  hear  the  jailer  call ; 

Woods,  waters,  meadows,  fragrant  flowers,  adieu ! 


•   FAREWELL   TO  THE  COUNTRY, 


Z37 


My  chains  are  ready  !  Freedom,  though  I  leave  her, 
I  go  inspired  her  glorious  hymn  to  swell. 

Deign  one  more  smile,  thou  vast  and  cloudless  aether  ; 
Oh,  echoing  woods,  repeat  my  last  farewell ! 


.« 


THE  CARRIER  PIGEON. 

Le  pigeon  messager, 
1822. 

'T^HE  champagne  sparkled,  and  my  mistress  young 
Sang  of  the  gods  of  Greece,  their  worship 
stopped ; 
Comparing  France  here  with  the  Greece  she  sung, 

Were  we,  when  at  our  feet  a  pigeon  dropped. 
Nceris  from  *neath  his  wing  a  letter  drew, 

Of  his  long-cherished  haunts  he  was  in  quest ;] 
Drink  of  my  cup,  O  messenger  so  true  I 
And  sleep  in  peace  upon  my  Nceris*  breast !  J 

'    He  's  fall'n,  o'erwearied  by  too  long  a  way; 

Again  we  '11  make  him  swift,  and  strong,  and  free* 


\s 


THE  CARRIER  PIGEON. 


Some  tradesman's  message  is  he  bearing,  say  ? 

Or  love  to  beauty  plighting  fealty  ? 
Perhaps  his  long-sought  nest  he  's  winging  to, 

With  latest  words  of  exiles,  long  distressed  ; 
Drink  of  my  cup,  O  messenger  so  true  ! 

And  sleep  in  peace  upon  my  Noeris'  breast ! 

> 

What  words  are  these  ?  it  is  our  land  he  seeks  ! 

It  is  to  France,  and  to  the  Greeks  he  fares  ; 
It  comes  from  Athens  !  glorious  news  it  speaks  ! 

Let  *s  read  it  then,  we  have  the  right  of  heirs. 
Athens  is  free  !  oh,  friends,  what  tidings  new  ! 

What  laurels  suddenly  do  raise  their  orest ! 
Drink  of  my  cup,  O  messenger  so  true  ! 

And  sleep  in  peace  upon  my  Noeris'  breast ! 


Athens  is  free  !  ah,  drink  to  the  good  Greeks ! 

Noeris,  behold  the  new-born  demi-gods  ! 
In  vain  decrepit  Europe,  trembling,  seeks 

To  pass  these  mighty  elders  'neath  her  rods. 


T30 


THE  CARRIER  PIGEON. 


They  still  arR  conquerors  ;  still  fair  Athens  view  I 
No  more  to  ruins  be  your  vows  addressed ; 

Drink  of  my  cup,  O  messenger  so  true  ! 
And  sleep  in  peace  upon  myNoeris'  breast  I 


Athens  is  free  !  oh,  Muse  of  Pindar,  rise  ! 

With  harp,  and  voice,  and  trumpet  now  take  wings ; 
Athens  is  free  !  barbarians  fiee  her  skies  I 

Athens  is  free  !  in  spite  of  all  our  kings  ! 
Informed  by  her  the  world  shall  take  its  due  ; 

In  Paris  shall  another  Athens  rest. 
Drink  of  my  cup,  O  messenger  so  true  ! 
,    And  sleep  in  peace  upon  my  Noeris*  breast  I 


Yes,  beauteous  traveller  to  Hellas*  shore, 
Rest  thee  awhile,  then  to  thy  loves  apace  ; 

Fly  soon  away, — in  Athens  light  once  more, 
Vultures  and  tyrants  bravely  in  thy  chase. 


\\ 


'I 


THE  CARRIER  PIGEON, 


»3« 


Then  trembling  kings  and  tottering  thrones  unto, 
Bear  a  free  people's  shouts  upon  thy  vest. 

Drink  of  my  cup,  O  messenger  so  true  ! 
And  sleep  in  peace  upon  my  Noeris*  breast ! 


THE  SYLPHIDE. 

La  sylphide, 

TT  'EN  Reason  has  her  ignorance  ; 

Her  torchlight  is  not  always  clear. 
She  casts  at  you  her  doubting  glance, 

Charming  sylphs,  ye  folk  of  air ! 
But  throwing  her  big  aegis  by, 

For  nought  my  curious  eye  could  see, 
A  sylphide,  late  I  did  espy. 

Airy  sylphs,  my  guardians  be  ! 

Yes,  you  on  roses'  breasts  were  bom. 
The  Morn's  and  Zephyr's  babes  are  you. 

You  varied  brilliant  shapes  adorn, 
Whence  we  our  pleasure's  secrets  drew. 


THE  SYLPHIDE. 


A  breath  of  yours  our  tears  can  dry  ; 

You  can  from  mists  the  azure  free  ; 
Yes,  seen  my  sylphide's  charms  have  I. 

Airy  sylphs,  my  guardians  be  ! 

Her  origin  I  could  divine, 

Whene'er  at  banquet  or  at  ball. 
I  've  seen  her  robings  infantine, 

And  what  they  lacked  pleased  best  of  all. 
Her  ribbon  lost,  her  clasp  undone, — 

Graceful  before,  then  most  was  she ; 
Of  sisters,  the  most  perfect  one. 

Airy  sylphs,  my  guardians  be  I 


Nurtured  upon  the  Graces'  laps. 
In  her,  your  sweet  caprice  I  view. 

She  *s  a  child  that 's  spoiled,  perhaps. 
But  she  's  a  child  that 's  spoiled  by  you, 

I  saw,  beneath  her  idle  air. 
The  dreamer.  Love,  make  eyes  at  me. 


111!'' 


«34 


THE  SYLPH  WE. 


Ye,  who  have  tender  hearts  in  care, 
Airy  sylphs,  my  guardians  be  I 

But  her  lovely  childishness 

Hides  a  spirit,  too,  as  bright 
As  youth's  dreams  in  rosy  dress 

You  bring  to  us  in  gay  delight. 
From  the  sparkle's  glowing  breast 

Skyward  with  me  did  she  flee. 
All  your  wings  she  had  impressed. 

Airy  sylphs,  my  guardians  be  1 


Rapid  meteor  !  vanished !  passed  ! 

Too  swift  and  far  she 's  from  us  flown. 
Have  I  on  her  looked  my  last  ? 

Does  she  some  sylph-husband  own  ? 
No,  like  que<°:n-bee,  she  alone 

Reigns  o'er  a  realm  of  mystery. 
Borne  by  you,  I  seek  her  throne. 

Airy  sylphs,  my  guardians  be  I 


THE  TAILOR  AND  THE  FAIRY. 

Le  tailleur  et  la  //<?. 

[*'  Song  sung  to  my  friends  on  my  birthday,  the  xgth  of 
August,  1822."— Note  of  B^ranger. 

B^ranger's  grandfather  was  a  tailor.  The  predictions  of 
the  fairy  in  the  second  stanza  were  incidents  of  his  youth. 
The  "bolt"  mentioned  in  the  text  has  reference  to  his  be- 
ing struck  by  lightning  wnen  a  boy  and  severely  injured.] 


T  N  Paris  here,  so  full  of  want  and  gold, 

In  seventeen-eighty  of  the  Christian  year, 
A  tailor  lived,  my  graodsire  poor  and  old, 

I  then  new-born,  what  happened  to  me,  hear. 
Nothing  predicted  me  an  Orpheus*  fame ; 
No  flowers  did  Fate  iu  my  rude  cradle  lay  ; 
But  at  my  cries  my  grandsire  ran  one  day, 
And  found  a  fairy  held  me  when  he  came. 
And  this  fairy  with  a  burden  gay 
Soothed  the  cry  of  my  first  cares  away. 


Ill  I 


X36  THE    TAILOR  AND   THE  FAIRY. 

The  good  old  man  said  to  her  anxiously, 

**  On  what  has  Fate  for  this  child  set  her  mark?" 
She  answered  him,  **  By  this  wand's  aid  I  see 

He  *11  be  an  inn-boy,  printer,  and  a  clerk. 
For  proof  a  thunderbolt  I  did  engage  : 
Thy  son  had  surely  then  to  death  been  doomed  ; 
But  God  takes  heed.  He  hath  the  bird  replumed, 
To  singing  fly,  and  brave  the  tempest's  rage.** 
And  then  the  fairy,  with  a  burden  gay, 
Soothed  the  cry  of  my  first  cares  away. 


"  All  the  pleasures,  all  the  sylphs  of  youth, 
Shall  wake  his  lyre  upon  the  breast  of  night. 

He  shall  bring  joy  beneath  the  poor  man's  roof, 
And  banish  ennui  from  the  rich  outright. 

But  what  is  that  which  wakes  his  saddened  strain  ? 

Glory  and  Liberty  engulfed  he  sees  ; 

And  like  a  frightened  fisherman  he  flees 

To  tell  the  port  of  shipwrecks  in  the  main." 


THE  TAILOR  AND   THE  FAIRY. 


«^ 


And  then  the  fairy  with  a  burden  gay 
Soothed  the  cry  of  my  first  cares  away. 

'•  What  has  my  daughter  given  me?"  doth  he  cry. 

**  Must  a  song-maker  be  my  only  stay  ? 
Than  feeble  echo,  'mid  vain  sounds  to  die, 

He  'd  better  ply  the  needle  night  and  day." 
"  You  're  wrong,"  the  fairy  said,  **  to  be  alarmed  ; 
Great  talents  often  have  less  fair  reward ; 
For  his  gay  songs  the  French  shall  hold  regard, 
And  to  their  source  the  exile's  tears  be  charmed." 
And  then  the  fairy  with  a  burden  gay 
Soothed  the  cry  of  my  first  cares  away. 


Friends,  I  was  yesterday  weak  and  morose, 
Once  more  the  kindly  fay  I  did  behold  ; 

With  careless  fingers  she  deflowered  a  rose, 
She  said,  "  I  see  thou  art  already  old. 

Yet  the  mirage  is  in  the  desert  born  ; 

Memory  to  old  hearts  brings  sweet  delight ; 


li 


THE  TAILOR  AND   THE  FAIRY, 

Friends  even  now  to  feast  thee  do  unite, 
Revisit  scenes  that  did  thy  youth  adorn." 
And  then  the  fairy  with  a  burden  gay 
As  aforetime  dissolved  my  cares  away. 


MY  BOAT. 


Ma  nacelle. 


/^N  wave,  eve  and  morn, 

Floating  tranquilly. 
My  light  bark  is  borne 

By  breath  of  destiny ; 
My  swelling  sail  now  see  I 

I  leave  behind  the  shore ; 
Ah  !  my  bark,  float  free  ! 
O,  zephyr  soft,  be  true  to  me  I 
Ah !  my  bark,  float  free  ! 

We  '11  find  a  port  once  more. 


For  passenger  I  've  ta'en 
,  The  singing  Muse  along ; 


X40  MV  BOA  T. 


My  light  course  o'er  the  main 
She  cheers  with  her  sweet  song. 

The  wanton  maid  in  glee 
Sings  for  every  shore  ; 

Ah  1  my  bark,  float  free  ! 

O,  zephyr  soft,  be  true  to  me  I 

Ah  !  my  bark,  float  free  ! 
We  '11  find  a  port  once  more. 


When  from  the  tempest's  breast 

A  hundred  bolts  take  wings, 
The  shores  quake  in  unrest, 

And  fearful  are  the  kings,— 
Pleasure  calls  to  me, 

Waiting  on  further  shore  ; 
Ah  !  my  bark,  float  free  ! 
O,  zephyr  soft,  be  true  to  me  ! 
Ah  !  my  bark,  float  free  1 

We  '11  find  a  port  once  more. 


MV  BOA  T. 


X4X 


A  far-off  sunny  stripe 

Gleams  through  the  changing  sky  ; 
It  makes  the  vintage  ripe 

Which  topers  longing  eye. 
With  new  wine  let 's  be 

In  ballast  for  that  shore  : 
Ah  !  my  bark,  float  free  ! 
O,  zephyr  soft,  be  true  to  me  ! 
Ah  !  my  bark,  float  free  1 

We  '11  And  a  port  once  more. 


Toward  well-known  shores,  now  glad, 

We  in  turn  do  bear  ; 
The  Graces,  half  unclad, 

Love's  tryst  are  holding  there  ; 
Ye  gods  !  that  fairest  she 

I  hear  sigh  on  the  shore  : 
Ah  !  my  bark,  float  free  ! 
O,  zephyr  soft,  be  true  to  me  I 


My  BOA  T, 


Ah  1  my  bark,  flc  at  free  1 
We  '11  find  a  port  once  more. 

From  that  false  rock  afar, 

Where  laurels  have  their  birth, 
Guides  me,  what  happy  star. 

Towards  a  humble  hearth  ? 
*Tis  Friendship  o'er  the  lee 

Renews  my  feast  on  shore : 
Ah  !  my  bark,  float  free  1 
O,  zephyr  soft,  be  true  to  me  ! 
Ah  1  my  bark,  float  free  ! 

We  '11  find  a  port  once  more. 


( 


THE  COURT  POET. 

La  Poete  de  Cour, 

'T^HEY  hire 

The  pipe  and  lyre  ; 
As  for  others,  'tis  for  me 
Meet  that  I  court  poet  be. 

What,  Mary  !  sing  for  thee  once  more  ? 

No,  truly,  I  dare  not  obey  ; 
My  Muse  at  last  is  nerved  to  soar 

And  toward  the  court  she  takes  her  way. 
I  '11  wage,  should  Voltaire  be  reborn, 

They  *d  raise  a  loan  to  buy  him  too  ; 
Fpr  sale  to  ministers  I  *m  sworn  ; 

I  can  no  longer  sing  for  you. 


«44 


THE  COURT  POET, 


They  hire 

The  pipe  and  lyre  ; 

As  for  others,  'tis  for  me 

Meet  that  I  court  poet  be. 

Should  I  speak  but  to  pleasure  thee, 

Others  would  smile  in  pitying  scorn  ; 
Love  now  of  least  account  we  see  ; 

The  great  have  Friendship  from  us  torn. 
Even  is  patriotism  hissed  ; 

Their  best  lore  is  to  reckon  true  ; 
I  write  odes  to  an  egotist ; 

I  can  no  longer  sing  for  you. 

They  hire 

The  pipe  and  lyre  ; 

As  for  others,  'tis  for  me 

Meet  that  I  court  poet  be. 

I  fear  that  by  thy  voice  inspired, 
I  'd  laud  the  Greeks,  heroic  race  ; 


THE  COURT  POET. 


145 


Against  whom  Europe  hath  conspired 
Lest  still  she  'd  blush  before  their  face. 

'Twould  grieve  thy  generous  soul  in  vain  ; 
Their  ills  thy  sorrows  would  renew  ; 

For  me,  I  sing  of  happy  Spain, 
I  can  no  longer  sing  for  you. 


They  hire 

The  pipe  and  lyre  ; 

As  for  others,  'tis  for  me 

Meet  that  I  court  poet  be. 


Gods  !  how  my  hopes  would  all  be  o'er, 

If  I  should  speak  thy  hero's  name  ; 
He  left  of  glory  such  a  store 

That  we  are  burdened  with  our  fame. 
Whilst  thy  hand  adorns  his  bust 

With  laurels  where  respect  is  due, 
I  incense  presence  most  august, 

I  can  no  longer  sing  for  you. 


146  THE  COURT  POET, 

They  hire 

The  pipe  and  lyre  ; 

As  for  others,  'tis  for  me 

Meet  that  I  court  poet  be. 

Why  do  you  doubt,  my  Mary  dear, 

This  change  hath  come  thy  lover  o'er  ? 
Fame,  country,  freedom,  honor  here 

Are  words  that  men  discount  no  more. 
Your  songs  must  in  their  satire  prey 

Upon  the  great  I  'm  cringing  to  ; 
No,  whatsoe'er  my  heart  would  say, 

I  can  no  longer  sing  for  you. 

They  hire 

The  pipe  and  lyre  ; 

As  for  others,  'tis  for  me 

Meet  that  I  court  poet  be 


I 


THE  BIRTHDAY. 

L  *  Anniversaire, 

T  TELOISE.  darling,  do  you  know 

It  is  a  year  since  you  've  been  born  ? 
Thy  future  ne'er  shall  fairer  show. 

Though  sweetest  smiles  should  it  adorn. 
These  flowers  bloomed  for  thy  renown  ; 

If 't  please  thee,  deck  thyself,  my  joy. 
You  are  charming  in  this  crown  ; 

Then  do  not  make  of  it  a  toy. 


A  child,  who  never  grows  to  age, 

Knowing  to  whom  your  birth  you  owe, 

That  you  will  learn  to  please  will  gage, 
*Tis  Love,  whom  you  will  some  day  know. 


M 


THE  BIRTHDAY. 


Him  for  a  thousand  causes  dread. 
Though  foster-brother  be  the  boy. 

For  of  the  rose-wreath  on  your  head 
He  *11  wish  to  make  himself  a  toy. 


Hope,  hovering  on  her  brilliant  wings, 

Above  thee,  will  delighted  fly  ; 
How  many  forms  of  smiling  things 

You  will  through  her  bright  prism  spy  ! 
When  once  to  her  sweet  dreams  a  slave. 

You  may  much  happiness  enjoy, 
If,  for  each  age  of  life  you  brave. 

She  will  reserve  for  you  a  toy. 


THE  IMAGINARY  VOYAGE. 

Le  voyage  imaginaire, 

1824. 

"X  T  OW,  Autumn,  hastening  on  her  humid  wing 
To  new-found  grief  again  apportions  me. 
In  pain  alway;  a  poor  and  timid  thing, 

I  see  turn  pale  my  flowers  of  gaiety. 
Snatch,  snatch  me  from  the  mires  of  Lutece  1 

Might  some  bright  heaven  beam  across  mine  eye, 
As  in  my  boyhood's  days  I  dreamed  of  Greece  ; — 

'Tis  there,  'tis  there  that  I  would  wish  to  die  1 


In  vain;  they  Homer  would  to  me  translate. 
Aye,  I  was  Greek, — Pythagoras  was  right  ; 


tso 


THE  IMAGINARY  VOYAGE. 


Athens  'neath  Pericles  my  mother  State  ; 

I  braved  with  Socrates  the  dungeon's  night ; 
I  've  incensed  Phidias*  marble  ecstasies  ; 

I  Ve  glanced  Ilissus'  flowering  borders  by  ; 
I  *ve  stirred  upon  its  slopes,  Hymettus*  bees. 

'Tis  there,  'tis  there  that  I  would  wish  to  die  I 


Ye  gods  !  with  but  one  day  my  vision  star  ! 

Revive  my  heart  with  those  unclouded  rays  ; 
Cries  Liberty,  whose  form  I  hail  afar, 

"  Haste,  Thrasybulus  grasps  the  victor's  bays  I" 
Away  !  away  !  the  bark  prepares  her  sail, 

Sea,  o'er  thy  bosom  safely  let  me  fly  ! 
Let  me  my  muse  at  the  Pireus  hail  I 

'Tis  there,  'tis  there  that  I  would  wish  to  die  ! 


Soft  are  the  tinted  heavens  of  Italy  ; 

But  slavery  obscures  their  azure  ray. 
Speed,  pilot,  farther  on,  I  pray  to  thee, 

Speed  yonder,  where  is  born  so  pure  a  day. 


THE  IMAGINARY  VOYAGE. 


iSi 


What  waves  are  these  ?  what  is  that  savage  rock  ? 

What  glowing  soil  my  vision  doth  descry  ! 
There  Tyranny  is  meeting  his  death-shock  ! 

*Tis  there,  'tis  there  that  I  would  wish  to  die  ! 


Take  a  barbarian  !  to  your  port  I  fly  ! 

Virgins  of  Athens,  make  my  accents  brave  1 
For  your  fair  clime  I  quit  a  niggard  sky, 

Where  Genius  'neath  the  kings  is  held  a  slave. 
O,  save  my  lyre  from  their  foul  distrust ! 

And  if  my  songs  can  move  one  tender  sigh, 
Mingle  my  ashes  with  Tyrtaeus'  dust : — 

'Neath  that  fair  heaven,  I  have  come  now  to  die ! 


I 


<    I 


LAFAYETTE  IN  AMERICA. 
Lafayette  en  AmMque, 

T3  EPUBLICANS,  what  retinue  comes  here  ? 
Steps  on  our  shore  an  aged  warrior  forth  ; 
Comes  he  to  us  some  kingly  pact  to  swear  ? 

Against  him  kings  have  kindled  high  their  wrath. 
Where  is  his  power  ?    He  crossed  the  waves  alone  ; 

What  hath  he  done  ?    He  broke  the  fetter's  band  ; 
Man  of  two  worlds,  his  fame  's  immortal  grown. 

Triumphal  days,  shine  forth  o'er  every  land  f 

O  European  !  upon  all  this  shore, 

Which  now  resounds  with  loud  and  joyous  cries, 
Thou  seest  reign,  enfranchised  evermore, 

Peace,  labor,  law  girt  round  with  moral  ties. 


\\ 


LAFAYETTE  IN  AMERICA, 


H3 


The  oppressed  a  refuge  find  on  this  free  sod, 
Our  wastes  are  peopled  by  the  tyrant's  hand, 

Man  and  his  rights  have  here  for  judge,  a  God  : 
Triumphal  days,  shine  forth  o'er  every  land  ! 

This  happy  state  cost  us  such  blood  and  grief  ! 

We  sank,  when  Lafayette  his  standard  reared  1 
Pointed  to  France,  made  Washington  his  chief. 

Fought,  conquered,  and  the  English  disappeared. 
For  his  own  land,  for  sacred  Liberty, 

Great  'mid  reverses  oft  he  since  did  stand, 
ifrom  Olmutz  fetter-marks  we  make  him  free : 

Triumphal  days,  shine  forth  o'er  every  land  ! 


This  aged  friend  we  so  rejoice  to  see, — 

This  hero  chosen  by  a  hero  chief, — 
Blest  once  of  yore  our  new-born  Freedom's  tree 

And  hailed  the  presage  of  its  budding  leaf. 
To-day,  this  tree,  in  all  its  leaves  arrayed, 

Braves  high  in  peace  cold  blast  and  lightning  brand ; 


XS4 


LAFAYETTE  IN  AMERICA. 


He  comes  to  rest  beneath  its  fruitful  shade  : 
Triumphal  days,  shine  forth  o'er  every  land  ! 


Our  veterans  now,  his  voice  and  features  own  ; 

Around  him  throng  our  chiefs  and  sagest  scribes. 
Mark,  a  whole  people  !  at  his  name  alone, 

From  out  their  forests  crawl  the  savage  tribes. 
For  this  vast  throng,  the  sacred  tree  doth  make 

A  shade  of  boughs  that  ever  green  expand-^ 
The  winds  afar  shall  its  ripe  seedlings  take  : 

Triumphal  days,  shine  forth  o'er  every  land. 

The  European,  whom  these  words  amaze, 

Had  followed  conquerors,  did  on  monarchs  wait ; 
Slaves,  to  those  idols,  did  their  incense  raise, 

A  free-born  people's  honors  are  more  great. 
*'  Alas  ! "  he  cried,  and  o'er  the  wave,  his  eye 

Seemed  searching  for  a  dear,  far-distant  strand, 
**  That  these  two  worlds  in  virtue  might  draw  nigh  :  " 

Triumphal  days,  shine  forth  o'er  every  land  I 


\ 


THE  GOOD  OLD   DAME. 

La  bonne  vieille. 

[The  subject  of  this  song  was  the  same  woman  who  in- 
spired the  one  called  ^^  Maudit  Printemps^^^  ot  "Hateful 
Spring,"  which  is  translated  in  another  part  of  this  book. 
Beranger  cherished  for  her  a  life-long  affection  and  that  of 
quite  a  different  nature  from  those  he  celebrates  elsewhere.] 

npHOU  wilt  grow  old,  my  mistress  fair  and  true  ! 
Thou  wilt  grow  old,  and  I  shall  be  no  more. 
In  its  swift  flight,  time  now  has  seemed  with  you, 

The  days  that  I  have  lost,  to  count  twice  o'er. 
Survive  me,  but  when  painful  age  you  brook, 

Hold  to  my  lessons  faithfully  and  long ; 
And,  good  old  dame,  in  peaceful  chimney-nook, 

Thy  loved  one's  verses  still  repeat  in  song. 


When  the  eye  traces  'neath  thy  furrowed  brow 
The  charming  traits  which  so  inspired  me. 


i 
I 


156  THE  GOOD  OLD  DAME. 

The  youth  so  eager  for  sweet  tales,  will  now 
Say,  "  What  wa?  this  friend  so  much  wept  by  thee  ?" 

If  possible,  thou  'It  paint  my  loving  look. 
My  ardor,  ecstasy,  and  dread  of  wrong  ; 

And,  good  old  dame,  in  peaceful  chimney-nook, 
Thy  loved  one's  verses  still  repeat  in  song. 

They  '11  ask  thee,  **  Could  he  too  inspire  love  ?" 

**  I  loved  him,"  thou,  without  a  blush,  wilt  say. 
**  Could  any  one  base  trait  against  him  prove  ?" 

**  Never,"  with  pride,  thou  wilt  reply  alway. 
Oh  !  say,  when  blithe  his  joyous  lute  he  strook. 

His  heart  was  aye  with  love  and  feeling  strong ; 
And,  good  old  dame,  in  peaceful  chimney-nook, 

Thy  loved  one's  verses  still  repeat  in  song. 

Thou,  whose  tears  I  *ve  taught  to  flow  for  France, 
Say  to  the  sons  of  the  new  hero  band. 

That  I  have  sung  of  fame  and  happy  chance. 
To  charm  from  grief  my  dear  unhappy  land. 


THE  GOOD  OLD  DAME. 


JS7 


Remind  them  how  the  dreadful  north  wind  shook, 
And  wrought  our  twenty  laurel-harvests  wrong  ; 

And,  good  old  dame,  in  peaceful  chimney-nook, 
Thy  loved  one's  verses  still  repeat  In  song. 


Beloved  form  !  when  my  short-lived  renown, 

From  thy  old  years  shall  chaim  away  the  grief, 
When  shall  thy  feeble  hand  my  portrait  crown 

With  the  fair  flowers  of  each  spring's  budding  leaf, 
Then  upward  to  the  world  of  spirits  look, 

Where  we  for  aye  shall  join  the  heavenly  throng  ; 
And,  good  old  dame,  in  peaceful  chimney-nook. 

Thy  loved  one's  verses  still  repeat  in  song. 


LOUIS  XI. 

Louis  XI. 

/^UR  old  King  Louis,  hidden  in  these  towers, 

Whom  each  in  low  voice  names. 
Vainly  comes  here  in  time  of  springing  flowers, 
;  To  smile  upon  our  games. 

Dance,  ye  happy  village  throng ! 

Lads,  lasses,  bound 

O'er  the  ground ! 

Join  ye  in  a  merry  round, 

While  sound 

Pipe  and  song ! 


While  we  with  song,  love,  laugh,  these  fields  have  trod, 
Louis  keeps  prisoi,  '^r  there. 
•    He  fears  the  great,  the  people,  even  God, — 
But  most  he  fears  his  heir. 


LOUTS  XL 


>59 


Dance,  ye  happy  village  throng  ! 

Lads,  lasses,  bound 

O'er  the  ground  ! 

Join  ye  in  a  merry  round, 

While  sound 

Pipe  and  song ! 

See  there  !  a  hundred  lifted  halberds  shine 

Within  the  soft  sun-ray  ! 
Do  ye  not  hear  the  guard's  quick  countersign 

Blent  with  the  drawn  bolt's  bray  ? 


Dance,  ye  happy  village  throng ! 

Lads,  lasses,  bound 

O'er  the  ground  ! 

Join  ye  in  a  merry  round, 

While  sound 

Pipe  and  song ! 

He  comes  !  he  comes  !  ah,  the  most  humble  shed 
Envy  its  peace,  he  may!         •    * 


i6o  r       LOUIS  XI, 


Doth  it  not  seem  some  phantom  pale  doth  tread 
Past  those  thick  stanchions  grey  ? 

Dance,  ye  happy  village  throng ! 

Lads,  lasses,  bound 

O'er  the  ground ! 

Join  ye  in  a  merry  round. 

While  sound 

Pipe  and  song ! 

We,  in  our  cots,  with  what  a  fancy  grand, 

Have  decked  the  monarch  fair. 
What  1  for  the  sceptre ,  a  weak  palsied  hand  ! 

The  crown,  a  brow  of  care  ! 

Dance,  ye  happy  village  throng ! 

Lads,  lasses,  bound 

O'er  the  ground ! 

Join  ye  in  a  merry  round, 

While  sound 

Pipe  and  song ! 


LOUIS  XI. 


i6i 


Despite  our  songs,  he  quakes,  his  lip  he  bites  ; 

The  clock  hath  caused  his  fears. 
He  always  thus,  whene'er  the  hour  strikes, 

His  belfry  signal  hears. 

Dance,  ye  happy  village  throng ! 

Lads,  lasses,  bound 

O'er  the  ground  ! 

Join  ye  in  a  merry  round, 

While  sound 

Pipe  and  song ! 

Alas  !  our  joy  makes  sadder  still  his  mood  \  ' 

He  with  his  favorite  goes. 
Fearing  his  hate,  let 's  say,  our  sire  good, 

Smiles  to  his  children  shows. 


Dance,  ye  happy  village  throng  I 
Lads,  lasses,  bound 


l62 


LOUIS  XI. 


O'er  the  ground ! 

Join  ye  in  a  merry  round, 

While  sound 

Pipe  and  song ! 


i' 


THE  PRISONER'S   FIRESIDE. 
Le  feu  du  prisonnier. 

La  Force,  1829. 

A  H,  sweet  companionship  the  fire  can  be 

Unto  the  prisoner,  winter  evenings  long  ; 
Then  a  good  Genius  dwells  alone  with  me  ; 

Warms,  gossips,  rhymes,  or  warbles  some  old  song. 
Within  the  glowing  coals  he  makes  me  sec 

Woods,  waters,  worlds,  all  with  an  instant's  ruse ; 
Then,  with  the  smoke,  all  weary  wishes  flee  ; 
Long  time,  good  Genius,  deign  me  to  amuse ! 

My  youth,  he  led  in  dreams,  or  tears,  or  mirth  ; 

My  age,  he  yet  with  boyish  pastime  cheers  ; 
Me  draws  a  ship  with  finger  on  the  hearth  ; 

Three  masts  upon  the  stormy  wave  appears. 


i«4 


THE  PRISONER'S  FIRESIDE. 


The  ship  speeds  on,  a  cloudless  heaven  o'er, 

'Tis  spring-time,  hark,  that  cheering  of  the  crew's  ! 

I  stand  alone,  enchained  upon  the  shore  ; 

Long  time,  good  Genius,  deign  me  to  amuse  I 

What 's  this  I  see  ?  an  eagle  in  the  sky  ? 

Of  the  sun's  height  is  he  now  taking  note  ? 
It 's  a  balloon  ;  I  see  the  streamers  fly  ! 

And  there  's  the  pilot  in  his  airy  boat ! 
The  daring  one,  if  pity  in  him  lies, 

Ruth  for  these  wall-pent  folk  he  '11  not  refuse. 
What  a  pure  air  he  breathes,  so  free  and  high  ! 

Long  time,  good  Genius,  deign  me  to  amuse  I 


'Tis  a  Swiss  Canton,  ah  !  the  landscape  fair  ! 

Lakes,  glaciers,  torrents,  valleys,  herds,  I  see  : 
Had  I  fled  thence,  I  'd  shunned  the  tempest  there  ; 

There  was  I  vffered  rest  by  Liberty. 
O'er  those  huge  mountain  crests  my  passage  lay, 

Our  old-flown  banner,  there  my  fancy  views, 


T 


THE  PRISONER'S  FIRESIDE. 


165 


I  could  not  tear  my  heart  from  France  away. 
Long  time,  good  Genius,  deign  me  to  amuse  ! 


Again  that  mirage  in  the  desert  lies  1 

Genius,  that  sloping  woodland  let  us  take  ; 
In  vain  they  tell  me  in  low  voice,  "  Be  wise  ! 

Bend  but  a  knee  and  you  '11  your  fetters  break. ' 
Thou,  who  in  scorn  the  watchful  jailer  holds, 

My  youth,  despite  my  fifty  years,  renews, 
Strike  quick  thy  wand  amidst  the  glowing  coals  ! 

Long  time,  good  Genius,  deign  me  to  amuse  ! 


ri 


J 


THE  GODDESS. 

La  d^esse, 

[On  a  person  whom  the  author  had  seen  representing 
Liberty  in  one  of  the  fetes  of  the  Revolution.] 

A  ND  is  it  thou,  thou  whom  I  saw  so  fair, 

When  round  thy  car  a  people  thronged  so  oft. 
With  cheers  bade  thee  the  name  immortal  wear, 

The  standard  brandished  in  thy  hand  aloft  ? 
In  our  respect,  our  shouts  of  joyousness, 
Thy  beauty,  and  thy  glorious  chivalry, 
Thou  proudly  rolledst,  thou  wert  our  goddess,  yes, 
Goddess  of  Liberty ! 

O'er  Gothic  ruins  took  thy  triumph  way; 

Our  brave  defenders  pressed  around  thy  feet ; 
While  flowers  rained,  the  virgins,  chaste  and  gay. 

Did  with  their  songs  the  hymn  of  battle  greet. 


THE  GODDESS. 


167 


I,  a  poor  child,  an  orphan's  doom  my  lot, 

A  bitter  cup  it  was  that  nurtured  me, 
Cried  out,  **  Be  thou  the  mother  I  have  not, 

Goddess  of  Liberty  !  " 

That  epoch  *s  stained  with  names  of  frightful  fame, 

But  I,  then  young,  was  not  with  judgment  filled  ; 
In  spelling  **  country,"  word  of  sweetest  name, 

With  horror  'gainst  the  stranger  I  was  thrilled. 
All  was  turmoil ;  all  armed  for  the  defence  ; 

In  boldness  o'er  them  all  was  Poverty  ; — 
Ah  !  give  me  back  my  childhood's  hope  intense. 

Goddess  of  Liberty  I 


Volcano  quenched  'neath  ashes  which  it  threw, 
A  score  years  later,  sleep  this  race  controlled  ; 

The  stranger  towards  us  with  his  balance  drew, 
Twice  said  to  us,  "  Gauls,  we  will  weigh  your  gold." 

When  we  in  ardor  blessed  the  heavenly  beam, 
Raised  beauty  on  her  altar  glad  and  free,    \ 


I 
1 1 


x68  THE  GODDESS. 

Thou  didst  but  seem  to  us  some  happy  dream, 
Goddess  of  Liberty  1 

Once  more  I  see  thee,  Time's  too  rapid  flight 

Hath  dulled  those  eyes  where  Love  did  laughing 
play  ; 
Once  more  I  see  thee,  and  thy  brow  of  blight 

Seems  at  my  voice  to  blush  for  thy  fair  day. 
Be  reassured ;  car,  altar,  flowers,  of  yore, — 

Youth,  virtue,  glory,  grandeur,  pride,  hope,  flee, — 
They  're  perished  all ;  thou  'rt  goddess  now  no  more, 

Goddess  of  Liberty ! 


THE  FOURTEENTH   OF  JULY. 

Le  quatorze  yuillet. 
La  Force,  1829. 

["The  fourteenth  of  July,  1789,  was  an  unusually  fine 
day,  and  the  fourteenth  of  July,  1829,  was  equally  fine, 
though  the  summer  had  been  terribly  wet.  The  French 
Guards  wore  blue  uniforms.  A  large  number  of  these  sol- 
diers escaped  from  their  barracks  and  rendered  most  valu- 
able service  to  the  Parisians,  in  taking  the  old  feudal  for- 
tress."—Note  OF  BiSranger. 

Beranger,  when  he  wrote  this  song,  was  confined  for 
political  satires  in  the  prison  of  La  Force.] 


T  T  NTO  a  captive  memory  full  of  charms  ! 

I  then  was  young;  "We'll  be  revenged!" 
they  cry  ; 
'*  To  the  Bastile  !  to  arms  !  with  haste,  to  arms  I " 
Artisans,  gentry,  merchants,  all  rush  by. 


170  THE  FOURTEENTH  OF  JULY. 

Pallor  I  saw  o'er  maid,  wife,  mother,  steal ; 

To  the  drum-beat,  the  cannon  roared  away  ; 
Victory  is  ours  !  we  *ve  taken  the  Bastile  ! 

A  glorious  sun  hath  welcomed  this  great  day  ! 

Hath  welcomed  this  great  day  ! 

Children,  old  men,  the  rich  and  poor,  embrace  ; 

The  women,  o'er  a  thousand  feats,  rejoice  ; 
A  blue-coat  soldier,  passing  by,  they  grace, 

The  siege's  hero,  with  their  hands  and  voice. 
The  name  of  king  is  thundered  on  my  ear  ; 

With  love,  they  're  shouting,  *'  Lafayette  ! "  alway. 
Now  France  is  free  !  my  reason  wakes  from  fear  ; 

A  glorious  sun  hath  welcomed  this  great  day  I 

Hath  welcomed  this  great  day  ! 

An  old  man,  on  the  morrow,  learned  and  grave, 
Guided  my  steps  o'er  ruins  vast  of  size  : 

*'  My  son,"  said  he,  **  here  tyrants  did  enslave 
A  people  ;  here  have  stifled  all  their  cries. 


THE  FOURTEENTH  OP  JULY,  171 

To  hold  the  crowd  of  captives  in  the  walls, 
Beneath  each  tower  so  deep  they  dug  away, 

At  the  first  shock,  the  ancient  castle  falls. 
A  glorious  sun  hath  welcomed  this  great  day  I 
Hath  welcomed  this  great  day  ! 

"Ancient  and  holy  rebel,  Liberty, 

My  son,  armed  with  our  grandsire's  chains  doth  rise ; 
She  to  her  triumph  calls  Equality, 

Pregnant  with  deeds,  who  rcdescends  the  skies. 
From  these  twain  sisters  the  bolts  roar  and  glow  ; 

Mirabeau  thundering  doth  the  court  affray  : 
His  voice  we  laud,  '  Another  Bastile,  ho  ! ' 

A  glorious  sun  hath  welcomed  this  great  day  ! 

Hath  welcomed  this  great  day  1 

"  Where  now  we  sow,  another  race  shall  reap  ; 

Our  strifes,  to  twenty  kings,  resounding  go  ; 
Trembling,  their  hands  upon  their  crowns  they  keep ; 

Their  subjects  all,  of  us,  arc  speaking  low. 


173 


THE  FOURTEENTH  OF  JULY. 


This  era,  teeming  with  the  rights  of  man, 

Begins  with  us,  and  round  the  earth  makes  way  : 

A  new  world,  on  tliese  ruins,  God  shall  plan  ! 
A  glorious  sun  hath  welcomed  this  great  day  ! 
Hath  welcomed  this  great  day  !  ' 


These  lessons,  that  an  old  man  gave  me  then, 

As  memories  in  my  heart,  did  sleeping  lie  ; 
But  after  twenty  years,  they  wake  again, 

Behind  the  bolts,  the  Fourteenth  of  July. 
O  Liberty  !  my  voice  they  'd  quench  in  hate  : 

Unto  these  walls  I  '11  chant  thee  while  I  may  ; 
The  dawn  comes  smiling  at  my  prison  grate  ! 

A  glorious  sun  hath  welcomed  this  great  day  ! 

Hath  welcomed  this  great  day  ! 


THE  SONG  OF    THE    COSSACK. 

Le  chant  du  Cosaque. 

/"^OME,  courser  mine,  the  Cossack's  noble  friend, 

Speed  at  the  trumpet  signal  of  the  North  ! 
Fierce  to  attack,  or  prompt  to  pillage,  bend, 

And  with  me  on  the  wings  of  death  fly  forth. 
No  gold  thy  selle  or  bridle  gives  to  view  ; 

The  might  of  my  exploits  this  guerdon  brings. 
O  proudly  neigh,  my  courser  tried  and  true  ; 

Tramp  'neath  thy  feet  the  nations  and  their  kings  ! 

Peace,  fled  from  earth,  hath  left  me  to  thy  rein  ; 

The  ramparts  of  old  Europe  fall  apart ; 
Come,  fill  with  gold  my  greedy  hands  amain  ; 

Come,  rest  thee  in  the  dwelling-place  of  art. 


174  THE  SONG  OF  THE  CCiSACK. 


Return  to  drink  of  ruffled  Seine  anew, 

Blood  drenched,  a  third  time  in  its  waters  spring ; 

0  proudly  neigh,  my  courser  tried  and  true  ; 
Tramp  'neath  thy  feet  the  nations  and  their  kings  ! 

As  in  a  fort,  priests,  princes,  nobles,  all 

Besieged  by  their  poor  subjects  now  we  see  ; 

**  Come,  be  our  masters  ! "  loud  to  us  they  call ; 
**  We  would  be  slaves,  that  we  might  tyrants  be  ! 

1  've  ta'en  my  lance,  and  vowed  an  oath  thereto, 
It  shall  to  earth  the  cross  and  sceptre  fling. 

0  proudly  neigh,  my  courser  tried  and  true  ; 
Tramp  'neath  thy  feet  the  nations  and  their  kings ! 

1  saw  a  giant's  phantom,  vast  of  size  ; 

His  eye  upon  our  bivouac  did  rest ; 
*'  I  recommence  my  reign  !"  he  thundering  cries, 

And  with  his  axe  he  pointed  towards  the  west. 
The  Hun  King's  shade  immortal  then  I  knew. 

I  'm  Attila's  son  !  in  ear  his  bidding  rings  ! 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  COSSACK.  175 

O  proudly  neigh,  my  courser  tried  and  true  ; 
Tramp  'neatli  thy  feet  the  nations  and  their  kings  ! 

That  pomp,  the  pride  of  Europe  and  ils  hist, 

That  boasted  knowledge  which  defenceless  lies  — 
Shall  all  be  swallowed  by  the  v/avcs  of  dust 

That  now  around  thy  tramp!^:  c;  steps  arise. 
Efface,  efface,  whilst  thou  thy  course  renew. 

Dome,  palace,  manners,  laws,  remembered  things  ! 
O  proudly  neigh,  my  courser  \.r\-:i\  and  true  ; 

Tramp  'neath  thy  feet  the  nations  and  their  kings  ! 


FIFTY  YEARS. 

Cinqtiante  arts. 

TT  THEREFORE  these  flowers  ?  a  fete  for  me  ? 

No  !  this  bouquet  tells  me  instead, 
Already  half  a  century 

Has  flown  to-day  above  my  head. 
Ah  !  how  the  happy  days  glide  by  ! 

Ah  !  those  lost  moments  fled  so  fast ! 
Ah  !  how  the  wrinkles  I  descry  ! 

Alas  !  my  fifty  years  are  past ! 

At  this  age  all  our  joys  are  o'er  : 

Dead  fruit  on  withered  boughs  displayed  ; 

But  some  one  knocks  upon  my  door, 
I  open  not,  my  part  is  played. 


FIFTY  YEARS.  X77 


Some  doctor,  I  'd  a  wager  set, 

Leaves  card  at  Time's  old  lodge  at  last. 
I  once  had  said,  "  It  is  Lisette." 

Alas  !  my  fifty  years  are  past ! 

Old  age  doth  in  sharp  pains  abound  ; 

We  are  belabored  by  the  gout ; 
Our  blindness  is  a  dark  profound  ; 

Our  deafness,  each  one  laughs  about. 
Then  reason's  light,  with  failing  ray, 

Doth  but  a  trembling  flicker  cast. 
Honor  to  age,  ye  children,  pay  ! 

Alas  !  my  fifty  years  are  past ! 

O  heavens  !  grave-digging  Death  I  hear 
Rubbing  his  hands  in  joyous  mind  ; 

Knocks  at  my  door  with  dismal  jeer, 
**  Adieu,  fair  sirs  of  humankind  !  " 

Below,  are  famine,  plague,  and  war  ; 
Above,  the  stars  are  glinting  fast ; 


1-3  FIFTY  YEARS. 


God  yet  gives  life, — I  '11  ope  the  door  ! 
Alas  !  my  fifty  years  are  past ! 

But  no  !  'lis  thou,  thou  youthful  dear, 

Sister  of  Charity  and  Love. 
These  nightmare  days,  bereft  of  cheer, 

Thou  lift'st  rny  slumbering  soul  above. 
Sowing  the  roses  of  thine  age, 

Like  those  that  spring  o'er  all  doth  cast, 
Perfume  the  dream ings  of  the  sage. 

Alas  !  my  fifty  years  are  past  I 


THE  REFUSAL. 

Le  re/us. 

[Song  addressed  to  General  Sebastiani.] 

/"^OURT  pensioned,  I !  what 's  this  I  hear? 
The  thing,  my  honor  steereth  clear. 

No  printed  puffs  for  me  ! 
Little  suffices  for  my  need  ; 
But,  when  I  think  of  hearts  that  bleed, 

Born  rich  I  seem  to  be. 

With  some  poor  or  suffering  friend 
One  may  not  rank  or  honors  spend  ; 

But  share  his  gold,  one  may. 
Hurrah  for  gold  !  yes,  were  I  king. 
If  but  five  hundred  francs  t*  would  bring, 

I  'd  pawn  my  crown  away. 


x8o  THE  REFUr.AL. 


If,  in  my  nook,  gold  raineth  spare, 
Quickly  it  goes,  God  knovveth  where  ; 

My  hoarding  talent  *s  bad  ; 
To  give  my  worn-out  pockets  peace, 
I  should  have  had,  at  his  decease, 

The  needles  of  grandad. 

Friend,  keep  your  gold  !  it 's  not  for  me. 
In  youth  \  married  Liberty  ; 

Alas  !  the  lame  's  but  rude. 
I,  who  in  verse,  sang  in  my  day 
Of  many  beauties  free  and  gay. 

Die,  slave  unto  a  prude. 

Dame  Liberty  is,  Monseigneur, 
A  wife,  whom  honor  doth  allure. 

Who  's  drunk  with  fair  renown  ; 
Who,  in  the  street  or  the  saloon. 
Seeing  the  least  bit  of  galoon. 

Cries,  "  Down  with  livery  !  down  T* 


w 


I 


THE  REFUSAL.  i8i 


Your  crowns  would  her  damnation  buy. 
To  pension  her,  forsooth  !  and  why  ? 

My  truthful  muse  and  free. 
I  am  a  sou  of  good  alloy, 
But  secret  silver's  coat  employ 

And  I  *d  false  money  be. 

Take  back  your  gold  !    Some  fears  I  feel ; 
But,  if  the  world,  your  generous  zeal 

For  me,  should  envy  much. 
Know  well  my  heart  can  ne'er  be  mute, 
But,  like  a  stringed  suspended  lute, 

Will  sound  to  every  touch. 


HOW  FAIR  IS  SHE! 

Qu\lk  est  Jolie. 

"\7'E  gods  !  but  she  is  wondrous  fair  ! 

She,  whom  I  still  will  love  for  aye. 
'Neath  her  soft  melancholy  air 

Her  eyes  dream  of  the  loves  alway. 
Her  breath  of  life  so  past  compare, 

Gave  the  enraptured  heavens  high. 
Ye  gods  !  but  she  is  wondrous  fair  ! 

And  I,  so  plain  a  man  am  I  ! 


Ye  gods  !  but  she  is  wondrous  fair  ! 

She  hath  but  counted  twenty  springs  ; 
All  blonde  and  floating  is  her  hair, 

Her  mouth  like  freshest  blooming  things. 
She  doth  a  thousand  talents  wear  ; 

Her  worth  alone  she  can't  descry. 
Ye  gods  !  but  she  is  wondrous  fair  ! 

And  I,  so  plain  a  man  am  I ! 


HOIV  FAIR  IS  SHE!  183 

Ye  gods  !  but  she  is  wondrous  fair ! 

And  ne'ertheless  she  loveth  me  ; 
I  did  a  long  time  envy  bear 

To  features  her  sex  love  to  see. 
Till  over  me  she  cast  her  snare, 

Did  Love  before  me  always  fly. 
Ye  gods  !  but  she  is  wondrous  fair  ! 

And  I,  so  plain  a  man  am  I  ! 

Ye  gods  !  but  she  is  wondrous  fair  ! 

For  me  her  constant  flame  appears  ; 
The  garland,  she  hath  culled,  I  wear 

On  brows  bald  since  my  thirty  years. 
Ye  veils,  that  deck  my  loved  one  rare, 

Fall,  for  the  crowning  triumph  's  nigh  f 
Ye  gods  !  but  she  is  wondrous  fair  ! 

And  I,  so  plain  a  man  am  I ! 


THE  RESTORATION  OF  SONG. 

Le  restoration  de  chanson, 

January,  1831. 

^ZES,  Muse,  my  maid  of  song, 

I  the  fact  had  owned, 
That  with  Charles'  race  along. 

They  had  thee  dethroned  ; 
But  each  law  that  they  lay  down 

Doth  thee  still  recall. 
Song,  again  take  up  thy  crown. 

Good  Sirs,  thank  you  all  I 

I  had  thought  they  had  in  charge 

Something  new  and  fine  ; 
Hoped  they  somewhat  might  enlarge 

Sphere  of  eighty-nine. 


THE  RESTORA  TION  OF  SONG.  185 


But  upon  a  blackened  throne 

They  to  plastering  fall. 
Song,  again  take  un  thy  crown. 

Good  Sirs,  thank  you  all  I 

Look  you  !  since  December's  days, 

State  and  power  to  gain, 
Chamber  sounds  the  chamber's  praise. 

Chamber  lauds  again. 
Each,  to  puff  its  fair  renown, 

Doth  itself  extol. 
Song,  again  take  up  thy  crown. 

Good  Sirs,  thank  you  all ! 

Ministers  in  dung-hill  pens. 
Shame  of  France  and  pest, 

Our  hereditary  hens, 

They  will  save  their  nest. 

And  the  chicks  God  sends  them  down, 
Will  to  laying  fall. 


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x86  THE  RESTORA  TION  OF  SONG. 

Song,  again  take  up  thy  crown. 
Good  Sirs,  thank  you  all ! 

Glory  to  the  civic  guard, 

Pedestal  of  laws  ! 
Public  peace  they  hold  in  ward  ; 

May  they  venge  our  cause. 
High  ones  too,  with  fear  I  own, 

Would  their  faith  enthrall. 
Song,  again  take  up  thy  crown. 

Good  Sirs,  thank  you  all  I 

Doctrinary  planet,  who 

Over  Ghent  shone  high. 
Lets  its  light  shine  over  too 

People  of  July.  ? 

Fie !  cold  autumn's  sun  looks  down 

Through  a  misty  pall. 
Song,  again  take  up  thy  crown. 

Good  Sirs,  thank  you  all ! 


THE  RESTORA  TION  OF  SONG.  X87 


They,  our  ministers  so  sage, 

All  one  value  bear  : 
They  would  that  our  weather-gauge 

Vary  not  a  hair. 
Some  slight  rumbling  in  that  town 

Doth  them  here  appal. 
Song,  again  take  up  thy  crown. 

Good  Sirs,  thank  you  all ! 

Fain  they  *d  be  in  state  of  grace, 

The  great  cowards  !  when 
Care  they  take  to  keep  in  place 

Maggoty  old  men. 
But  if  we  *ve  not  touched  a  loun, 

•Tis  that  this  might  fall 

Song,  again  take  up  thy  crown. 

Good  Sirs,  thank  you  all ! 

Thus  they  do  me  thee  restore, 
Song,  my  mistress  fair ; 


i83  THE  RES  TOR  A  TIO.V  OF  SONG. 

No  laced  coat,  the  tricolor 

Wrap  thee  round  fore'er. 
Fear  not,  you  're  not  prison  boun*, 

Least  to  Poissy's  wall. 
Song,  again  take  up  thy  crown. 

Good  Sirs,  thank  you  all ! 

■i   ' 
But  my  worn  soil,  fallow  laid, 

Pass  yet  longer  by  ; 
For  my  younger  rivals,  maid, 

Have  so  fair  a  sky  ! 
Theirs  the  plenteous  rose,  renown  ; 

Mine  the  daisy  small. 
Song,  again  take  up  thy  crown. 

Good  Sirs,  thank  you  all ! 


LET  'S  HASTE ! 

Hatous-nous  ! 

February,  1831. 

AH!  if  I  were  but  brave  and  young, 
A  true  hussar,  I  'd  sweep  the  world  ; 
All  with  my  blonde  mustaches  curled, 
My  brilliant  cloak  about  me  flung, 
At  wrist  my  warring  sabre  slung. 
Off,  steed  of  mine,  to  Poland  fly  ; 
Help  to  a  death-doomed  people  bear  ! 
In  shameful  sloth  our  cowards  lie. 
Oh,  haste  !  let  *s  harvest  honor  there  1 

If  I  were  young,  aye,  by  this  hand  ! 
I  *d  to  my  fair  young  mistress  say, 
**  Quick,  girl,  the  crouper !  let 's  away  ! 


xgo  LET'S  HASTE  I 

In  fine  devotion  take  your  stand 
By  ladies  of  that  loving  land. 
Sell  every  jewel,  yes,  your  all ! 
Your  sheets  for  lint  in  pieces  tear  ; 
Stanch  yet  some  life-blood  they  let  fall. 
Oh,  haste  !  let 's  harvest  honor  there  ! 

Aye  more,  if  I  had  millions  too. 
To  the  brave  Poles  I  'd  haste  and  say, 
"  Take  some  few  diplomats  in  pay  ; 
Buy  store  of  powder,  and  do  you 
Clothe  your  heroic  force  anew  ; 
Old  Europe,  that  on  crutches  drags, 
Rich,  gouty,  with  a  vacant  stare, 
Thinks  virtue  cannot  dwell  'neath  rags. 
Oh,  haste  !  let 's  harvest  honor  there  ! 

If  but  a  powerful  king  were  I, 

Ah,   how  much  aid  I  *d  bring  them  more  ! 

My  ships  the  Sound  and  Bosphorus  o'er 


LET'S  HASTE f  xgi 


Would  sweep;  I  'd  make  the  Crescent  fly  ; 
I  *d  warm  the  blood  of  Sweden  high 
With  shouting,  Poland,  help  for  thee  ! 
At  stout-arms'  length  long  sceptres  bear 
O'er  earth — on  its  wide  boundaries  lie. 
Oh,  haste  !  let 's  harvest  honor  there  ! 

Were  I  the  God  hears  Poland's  wail, 

If  but  one  day  I  heard  her  cry, 

Before  the  sun  rose  in  the  sky, 

The  Czar  should  in  his  court  turn  pale. 

The  Poles  with  all  my  love  I  'd  hail. 

Though  oracles  should  'gainst  them  plead, 

My  miracles  I  would  not  spare  ; 

Alas  !  of  miracles  they  've  need  ! 

Oh,  haste  !  let 's  harvest  honor  there  ! 

Let 's  haste  !  but  little  help  I  '11  be. 
O,  King  of  Heaven  !  hear  my  cry  ! 
Father  of  Freedom  !  throned  on  high, 


iga 


LET'S  HASTE/ 


Their  guardian  angel  make  of  me  ! 
They  have  their  only  stay  in  Thee. 
God  !  give  my  voice  the  trumpet's  breath  ; 
World-shaking,  thundering  through  the  air 
This  shout  that  might  awaken  death  1 
Haste,  haste,  and  harvest  honor  there ! 


ADVICE  TO   THE   BELGIANS. 

Conseil  aux  Beiges. 

May,  1831. 

"O  ROTHERS  of  Belgium,  make  an  end  at  once  ; 
Morbleu  !  a  king  at  once  why  don't  you  make  ! 
Your  airs  republican,  these  last  eight  months, 

Make  all  good  courtiers  with  an  ague  quake. 
Always  for  kings  materials  abound  ; 

Jean,  Paul,  my  neighbor,  I,  can  ape  u*^  ining. 
Good  royal  eggs  already  hatched  are  found. 

Make  a  king  !  heavens  !  make  a  king  I 

Make  a  king  !  make  a  king  ! 


What  good  a  prince  among  you  will  spread  round  ! 
First  Etiquette  with  strutting  pomp  appears  ; 


194  ADVICE  TO  THE  BELGIANS, 

Then  ribbons,  robes,  and  crosses  will  abound  ; 

Then  marquises,  dukes,  barons,  counts,  and  peers. 
Then  a  fine  throne,  in  silk  and  pearl  and  gold  ; 

The  cushion,  though,  might  some  to  trouble  bring. 
If  heaven  pleased,  you  'd  an  anointing  hold. 

Make  a  king  !  heavens  !  make  a  king  ! 

Make  a  king  !  make  a  king  ! 

Tlicn  you  will  have  hand-kissing  and  parades, 

Addresses,  verses,  flowers,  and  fireworks ; 
Then  health  in  many  a  courtly  server  fades, 

When  some  small  ill  the  royal  bosom  irks  ; 
The  poor  man's  cap  and  crown  of  monarchs  know 

Each  its  own  vermin,  'tis  God's  reckoning. 
On  pride  supreme  the  cankering  courtiers  grow. 

Make  a  king  !  heavens  I  make  a  king ! 

Make  a  king  !  make  a  king ! 

Then  there  will  reign  you  lackeys  of  each  sort, 
Judges  and  prefects,  gendarmes  and  spies. 


ADVICE  TO  THE  BELGIANS. 


Soldiers  enough  to  rob  and  to  extort, 

Joy,  that  to  burn  a  hundred  torches,  flies. 
The  budget,  lo  !  Athens  and  Sparta  too, 

Cost  not  in  twenty  years  such  nourishing. 
The  ogre 's  dined  ;  good  folks,  the  bill  is  due ! 

Make  a  king !  heavens  !  make  a  king ! 

Make  a  king  !  make  a  king ! 

But  what !  I  *m  joking !  'Tis  well  known  in  France, 

Warm  partisan  am  I  unto  the  throne. 
By  others'  reckoning,  we  *ve  made  great  advance  ; 

None  but  good  living  princes  here  are  known. 
The  people's  sires  killed  thern  half  with  care  ; 

If  they  learned  more,  less  trouble  would  they  bring. 
The  thirteenth  Louis  was  good  Henry's  heir. 

Make  a  king !  heavens  !  make  a  king  ! 

Make  a  king !  make  a  king  1 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 

■If 

Souvenirs  d\nfance» 

1831. 

[''Addressed  to  my  relatives  and  friends  at  Peronne, 
where  I  passed  a  part  of  my  youth,  from  1790  to  »796."J 

"X/E  scenes,  where  Hope  hath  fondled  me  of  yore, 

At  fifty  years,  familiar  I  review  ; 
How  do  ye  childhood's  memories  restore, 
As  when  the  spring  doth  nature's  wealth  renew. 

All  hail !  to  you,  friends  of  my  early  age  ; 
All  hail !  ye  kindred,  whom  my  love  hath  blessed  ; 
hanks  to  your  care,  here,  whilst  the  storm  did  rage, 
Poor  birdling,  I  found  shelter  in  the  nest. 


1 


I 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 


»97 


The  close-pent  prison  I  would  see  once  more, 
Where,with  his  niece  so  sweet  and  blooming  grown, 

The  old  schoolmaster  birchen  sceptre  bore, 

And  taught  with  pride  what  he  had  never  known. 

Here,  more  than  once,  was  I  apprentice  made  ; 

Ever,  alas  !  to  idleness  inclined  ; 
But  when  they  set  me  learning  Franklin's  trade, 

I  grew  a  sage's  stature  in  my  mind. 

It  was  an  age  when  friendship 's  freely  bum  ; 

Soil,  whereon  flowers  a  morning  full  of  hope  ; 
There  springs  a  tree  whence  oft  a  branch  is  torn 

To  lean  on  evenings  down  life's  painful  slope. 


Ye  scenes,  where  Hope  hath  fondled  me  of  yore, 

At  fifty  years,  familiar  I  review  ; 
How  do  ye  childhood's  memories  restore,       ., 

As  when  the  spring  doth  nature's  wealth  renew. 


198  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD, 

*Twas  in  these  walls,  that  on  disastrous  days, 
To  me  the  roar  of  hostile  cannon  came  ; 

'Tvvas  there,  my  voice,  once  tuned  to  festal  lays. 
In  broken  tones  hath  spoke  my  country's  name. 

Here,  dove-like  wings  upbore  my  dreaming  soul ; 

Here,  of  my  sabots  was  the  weight  forgot. 
Heaven's  thunderbolt  here  marked  me  for  its  goal. 

Kings  since  have  thundered,  but  I  heeded  not. 

Against  blind  Fate  did  Reason  don  her  mail 
Beneath  this  humble  roof,  and  comes  once  more 

To  jeer  at  Glory,  smoke  borne  on  the  gale, — 
Both  which,  with  tears  oft  make  our  eyes  run  o'er. 

Friends,  kindred,  ye  who  saw  my  dawn  on  earth, 
Objects  of  reverence,  unto  time  endeared,     - 

Yes,  still  is  sweet  that  cradle  of  my  birth,  ^ 

Though  she  who  rocked  it  long  hath  disappeared. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD,  199 

Ye  scenes,  where  Hope  hath  fondled  me  of  yore, 

At  fifty  years,  familiar  I  review  ; 
How  do  ye  childhood's  memories  restore, 

As  when  the  spring  doth  nature's  wealth  renew. 


<{ 


THE  OLD  VAGABOND. 

Le  vieux  vagabond, 

TJ  ERE  in  this  ditch  I  'U  die  at  last, 

Old,  worn,  infirm,  for  want  of  care  ; 
He 's  drunk,"  they  *I1  say,  the  goers  past: 

*Tis  well !  so  they  their  pity  spare. 
I  see  some  turn  their  heads  this  way  ; 

Some  throw  me  pence  as  they  go  by ; 
Off  quickly,  seek  the  fete,  I  pray. 

Old  vagabond  !  without  you  I  can  die  ! 

Yes,  here  of  age  I  dying  lie ; 

For,  say  they,  "  hunger  kills  not  here."  j 
In  my  despair,  one  hope  had  I, 

The  hospital  my  end  would  cheer. 


THE  OLD  VAGABOND,  aoz 

But  none  would  grant  me  a  retreat ; 

They  're  full,  so  many  the  forlorn. 
Alas  !  my  nurse  must  be  the  street. 

Old  vagabond  !  to  die  where  I  was  bom  ! 

In  youth,  to  artisans  I  knew, 
**  Teach  me  your  trade,"  I  oft  would^  say  ; 
'•  Go,  we  have  not  too  much  to  do,"  ' 

Replied  they,  "go,  and  beg  your  way." 
**  Work  ! "  said  ye  rich  men  whom  I  saw  ; 
I  've  dined  well  on  the  bone  ye  threw  ; 
Well  have  I  slept  upon  your  straw. 
Old  vagabond  !  my  curse  is  not  on  you. 

I  might  have  stolen,  I,  poor  soul ,     '  * 
But  no  !  I  stretched  an  honest  hand  ; 

An  apple  was  the  most  I  stole. 
Ripening  along  the  highway  land. 

Full  twenty  times,  to  dungeon,  they,         \ 
In  the  king's  name,  did  me  consign  ; 


909  THE  OLD  VAGABOND. 

They  took  my  only  joy  away  ; 
Old  vagabond  I  the  sun,  the  sun  is  mine  ! 

Where  may  the  poor  man's  country  be  ? 

What  are  to  me  your  wine  and  com  ? 
Your  glory  and  your  chivalry  ? 

The  orators  your  halls  adorn  ? 
Through  your  rent  walls,  the  stranger  stept 

All  armed  and  fattened  on  your  pride  ; 
How  o'er  it  like  a  fool  I  've  wept. 

Old  vagabond  !  his  hand  my  wants  supplied, 

Like  a  vile  insect,  fellow  men  ! 

Why  crushed  ye  not  my  life  out  too  ? 
Ah  !  better  had  ye  taught  me  then, 

For  you  some  lasting  good  to  do. 
For,  sheltered  from  the  blighting  wind, 

The  worm  had  turned  an  ant— but  though 
I  *d  like  a  brother  loved  mankind. 

Old  vagabond  !  I  die,  I  die  your  foe  ! 


THE   GIPSIES. 
Les  bohemiens. 

T  UGGLERS,  thieves,  or  sorcerers,  say- 
*^      Unclean  churls, 
Of  ancient  worlds ! 
Jugglers,  thieves,  or  sorcerers,  say, 
Whence  come  ye,  Bohemians  gay  ? 

Whence  come  we  ?    No  man  doth  know. 

Tell  us  where 

Do  swallows  fare  ? 
Whence  come  we  ?    No  man  doth  know 
Is  *t  as  well  known  where  we  go  ? 

Without  prince,  country,  laws,  are  we  ! 
Our  life 
Makes  envy  rife. 


Mi 


204  THE  GIPSIES. 


Without  prince,  country,  laws  to  be, 
Happy  is  man  one  day  in  three ! 

All  independent  are  we  born. 

Never  we 

Baptism  see  ! 
All  independent  are  we  bom, 
To  sound  of  fife  and  song  and  horn  ! 

Our  earliest  steps  own  no  command — 

In  this  round 

Where  wrongs  abound ! 
Our  earliest  steps  own  no  command 
From  prejudice's  swaddling  band ! 

The  people,  whom  by  tricks  we  cheat. 

Wondering  look 

On  the  conjuring  book. 
The  people  whom  by  tricks  we  cheat, 
They  fain  would  saints  and  sorcerers  meet. 


THE  GIPSIES.  «ef 


We  're  finding  wealth  upon  the  way  ; 

Our  band 

Makes  blithe  demand ; 
We  're  finding  wealth  upon  the  way  ; 
And  singing,  palms  we  open  lay. 

We  poor  birds,  whom  God  hath  blessed  ! 

Whom  they  rout 

From  cities  out, 
We  poor  birds,  whom  God  hath  blessed ! 
r  the  midst  of  woods  hang  now  our  nest. 

Groping  Love  comes  every  night. 

All  pell-mell. 

We  're  harnessed  well  1 
Groping  Love  comes  every  night. 
He  drives  us  in  his  chariot  bright. 

To  lift  thine  eye  thou  hast  no  power, 
Sage  so  gruff. 
Of  shallow  stuff ! 


ao6  THE  GIPSIES. 


To  lift  thine  eye  thou  hast  no  power, 
From  the  old  clock  on  thy  old  tower ! 

Seeing  's  having  !  away  go  we  ! 

Free  from  strife 

Is  the  wandering  life  ! 
Seeing  *s  having  !  away  go  we  ! 
For  to  win  all,  is  all  to  see. 

But  everywhere  to  man  we  cry, 
Wearying  round. 
Or  in  rest  profound, 
But  everywhere  to  man  we  cry, 
"Thou'rt  born,  good-day!    thou  diest,  good- 
bye!" 

When  we  die,  be  it  young  or  old, 

Man  or  maid. 

Our  souls  God  aid  ! 
When  we  die,  be  it  young  or  old, 
Our  bones  to  the  doctor's  sub.  are  sold. 


THE  GIPSIES.  ao7 


We  have  not, — we,  from  pride  aloof ! — 

Laws  so  vain, 

Witli  a  heavy  chain  ; 
We  have  not, — we,  from  pride  aloof ! — 
Cradle,  nor  funeral  shroud,  nor  roof. 


But  now,  believe  our  gaiety ! 

Priest  or  knave, 

Noble  or- slave. 
But  now,  believe  our  gaiety  ! 
For  happiness  is  liberty  ! 

O  yes,  believe  our  gaiety  ! 

Priest  or  knave. 

Noble  or  slave. 
O  yes,  believe  our  gaiety  ! 
For  happiness  is  liberty  ! 


THE  PEOPLE'S  REMINISCENCES. 

Les  souvenirs  du  peuple, 

T    ONG  his  glory  will  be  told, — 
In  the  cabin  told  with  tears. 
Humble  roofs,  for  fifty  years, 
Will  no  other  history  hold. 
Then  the  village  folk  will  go 
To  some  story-telling  dame, 
*'  Mother,  tales  of  him  you  know, 
Charm  our  evenings  with  his  fame. 
Though  they  say  he  did  us  ill, 
Still  the  people  him  revere, — 
Yes,  still  revere  ! 
Mother,  still  of  him  we  'd  hear  ! 
Mother,  of  him  still ! " 

"Children,  with  a  train  of  kings. 
He  did  through  this  village  go. 


THE  PEOPLE'S  REMINISCENCES.  acg 

'Tis  a  long  time  past,  you  know  ! 
I  was  doing  household  things. 
Up  the  hill — on  foot  at  that — 
I  observed  him  on  his  way, 
He  had  on  a  little  hat 
And  an  overcoat  of  grey. 
I  stood  near  him,  trembling,  weak  ; 
Then  he  said :  *  My  dear,  good-day  I 
My  dear,  good-day  !  * " 
**  Mother,  did  he  speak  that  way  ? 
Mother,  that  way  speak  ?  "  • 

Next  year,  I,  poor  woman,  came 

Paris,  one  f6te  day,  to  see. 

Going  with  his  court  was  he 

On  the  way  to  Notre  Dame.  ' 

Hearts  did  all  to  gay ness  run — 

All  admired  his  splendid  train  : 
**  What  fine  times  ! "  said  every  one, 
**  He  doth  all  heaven's  blessings  gain." 


2IO  THE  PEOPLLTS  REMINISCENCES. 

Ah  !  his  smile  was  very  sweet ! 
God  a  son  had  given  him  too  ! 
Yes,  given  him  too  ! 
**  Mother,  what  a  treat  for  you  ! 
Mother,  what  a  treat ! " 


But  when  poor  Champagne  did  yield 

To  the  foeman's  arms  a  prey, 

He  held  dangers  all  at  bay, 

Seemed  alone  to  keep  the  field. 

One  night  came  a  knock,  as  't  were 

Now, — the  door  I  open  threw  ; 

He,  good  God  !  was  standing  there 

Guarded  by  a  faithful  few. 
*He  sat  on  thai  very  chair  ; — 
**  Ah,  these  wars  !  these  wars  ! "  he  cried, 
"  These  wars  !  "  he  cried. 
"  Mother,  sat  there  by  your  side  ? 

Mother,  he  sat  there?"  .» 


THE  PEOPLE'S  REMINISCENCES.  %ix 

"  I  am  hungry,"  saiu  he,  I 

Bread  and  sour  wine  supplied  ; 

Soon  his  dripping  clothes  he  dried  ; 

Then  he  dozed  the  fire  by. 

Waking,  he  observed  my  tears  ; 
"  Dame,"  said  he,  "  Bonne  Esperance  ! 

I  '11,  for  all  her  ills  and  fears, 

Venge  in  front  of  Paris,  France  !  " 

Then  he  went.     A  treasure  still, 

I  have  kept  his  jjlass  till  now  ; 

His  glass  till  now  ! 

*  Mother,  what !  you  have  it,  how ! 

What !  you  have  it  still ! " 


Here  it  is  !    But  fortune  led 

To  his  doom  our  chief  renowned. 

He,  whose  head  a  pope  had  crowned, 

In  a  lonely  isle  lies  dead. 

Long,  they  thought  it  could  not  be  ; 


aia 


THE  PEOPLE'S  REMINISCENCES, 


**  He'll  come  back,"  they  said,  *' we  know  "  ; 

He  is  hastening  o'er  the  sea, 

And  he  '11  master  still  the  foe. 

"When  we  found  it  was  not  true — 

Ah  !  my  grief  I  can't  forget ! 

I  can't  forget ! 
"  Mother,  God  will  bless  you  yet, 

God  will  yet  bless  you  I " 


PONIATOWSKI. 

PoniatowskL 

July,  1831. 

<<"^1[7HAT!  flying,  you,  the  conquerors  of  the 
world  ? 

Fate  before  Leipsic  blunders  now  to-day. 
What !  flying?  "     Here  a  bridge,  in  ruin  hurled. 

Is  by  the  roaring  waters  swept  away. 
Steeds,  soldiers,  arms,  accoutrements,  pell-mell 

All  tumble  in,  the  Elster  rolls  impaved  ; 
It  rolls  on  deaf  to  vows,  cries,  tears,  that  swell, — 
*'  Naught  but  a  hand,  and.  Frenchmen,  I  am  saved ! " 

"  Naught  but  a  hand  !  curse  him  who  succor  craves  ! 
On  !  on  !  to  stop  !  who  is  't  will  pay  the  price  ?  " 


214  PONIA  TOWSKI. 


**  'Tis  for  a  hero  swallowed  by  the  waves — 
*Tis  Poniatowski,  and  he  's  wounded  thrice  ! " 

*•  Who  cares," — they  fly.     Inhuman  made  by  fear, 
Answers  no  heart  the  succor  he  has  craved. 

The  torrent  sweeps  him  from  his  charger  clear, — 

*'  Naught  but  a  hand,  and.  Frenchmen,  I  am  saved  I " 

He  's  dying, — no  ! — he  struggles — swims  again — 

His  steed's  long  floating  mane  his  fingers  feel. 
"To  die  drowned,"  gasped  he,  "when  on  yonder 
plain 

I  hear  the  guns  and  see  the  flash  of  steel ! 
My  brothers  !  ah  !  you  praised  the  Polish  lance, 

For  love  of  you  a  bloody  death  I  braved  ; 
Ah  !  save  me  to  spend  all  my  blood  for  France  ; 

Naught  but  a  hand,  and.  Frenchmen,  I  am  saved  ! " 

There  comes  no  succor  !  and  his  failing  hand 
Lets  go  its  guide— now,  Poland,  now  farewell ! 


PONIA  TdWSKI.  215 


But  a  bright-visioned  presence  doth  expand 

Upon  his  soul  from  where  God's  mansions  dwell. 

*•  At  last !  what  see  I  ? — the  White  Eagle  wakes  ! 
He  flies  !  he  fights  !  in  Russian  blood  he  *s  bathed  ! 

Upon  my  ear  a  song  of  triumph  brealcs  ! 

Naught  but  a  hand,  and,  Frenchmen,  1  am  saved ! " 

There  comes  no  succor ! — dead  !  upon  the  shores 
The  foe  encamped,  where  ward  the  rushes  keep  ; 

Those  times  are  far,  yet  still  a  voice  deplores 
From  the  profoundest  shadows  of  the  deep. 

And  often  now, — Great  God,  make  me  believed  ! — 
Still  to  the  heavens  that  pleading  voice  is  raised  ; 

Wherefore  that  cry  by  us  from  heaven  received, 

"  Naught  but  a  hand,  and,  Frenchmen,  I  am  saved  ! " 

'Tis  Polands',  her  true  son's,  that  voice  profound, 
She,  who  so  many  times  for  us  hath  fought ; 

In  her  own  blood,  her  own  life  she  hath  drowned. 
The  blood  with  which  she  has  such  honor  bought. 


2i6  pom  A  TOIVSKI. 


Like  that  chief,  who  did  for  his  country  die, 

His  mangled  corpse  by  rushing  Elster  laved, 

From  the  gulf's  brink  a  whole  brave  people  cry, 

"Naught   but   a  hand,   and,    Frenchmen,  we   are 
saved ! " 


THE  OLD  CORPORAL. 

Le  vieux  corporal, 

T?ALL  in,  comrades  !— to  your  places  ! 

Shoulder  arms !  guns  loaded,  march  ! 
I  've  my  pipe  and  your  embraces, 

Come,  give  me  my  last  discharge. 
I  'm  too  old  for  service  filling, 

But  for  you,  young  soldiers  all, 
I  was  father  to  your  drilling ; 
Into  step  now,  conscripts,  fall ! 
Don't  be  weeping ; 
Don't  be  weeping ; 
Step  be  keeping, 
Keeping,  keeping,  keeping  all  I 


My  play  captain  did  me  outrage  ; 
Down  I  knocked  him — he  *s  well  as  I ; 


THE  OLD  CORPORAL. 


They  *ve  condemned  me — 'tis  the  usage  ; 

I,  old  corporal,  must  die. 
Passioned  by  the  drink  I  swallowed, 

Nothing  could  my  blow  recall  ; 
But  the  great  man  I  have  followed  ; — 
Into  step  now,  conscripts,  fall ! 
Don't  be  weeping ; 
Don't  be  weeping ; 
Step  be  keeping, 
Keeping,  keeping,  keeping  all ! 


Conscripts,  you  *11  be  scarce  exchanging 
Arm  or  leg  to  gain  the  cross  ; 

I  gained  mine  those  conflicts  waging 
When  all  kings  we  down  did  toss. 

As  I  told  our  b'  ttle's  story, 

"  Drinks  around  ! "  did  each  one  call ; 

What  avails  me  here  that  glory  ; — 

.    Into  step  now,  conscripts,  fall ! 


THE  OLD  CORPORAL. 


AP^ 


Don't  be  weeping ; 
Don't  be  weeping ; 
Step  be  keeping, 
Keeping,  keeping,  keeping  all ! 

« 

Robert,  lad  of  my  own  village, 

Back  and  take  thy  sheep  in  hand  ; 
See,  where  grows  that  garden's  tillage, 

April 's  fairer  in  our  land. 
How  at  dawn,  'neath  woodland  cover. 

Would  the  fresh  charms  hold  me  thrall ; 
Great  God  !  still  she  lives — my  mother ! 
Into  step  now,  conscripts,  fall ! 
Don't  be  weeping ; 
•   Don't  be  weeping ; 
Step  be  keeping. 
Keeping,  keeping,  keeping  all  I 

Who  sobs  there—doth  this  way  stare  hard  ? 
Is  't  the  drummer's  widow  ?— aye  I . , 


220  THE  OLD  CORPORAL, 

I,  through  Russia,  in  the  rear-guard, 

Carried  her  son  night  and  day. 
Child  and  Tnother,  snow,  I  fear  it. 

Had  been,  but  for  me,  their  pall ; 
She  *11,  I  know,  pray  for  my  spirit  ;— 
Into  step  now,  conscripts,  fall  I 
Don't  be  weeping ; 
Don't  be  weeping ; 
Step  be  keeping, 
Keeping,  keeping,  keeping  all ! 


Zounds  !  my  pipe 's  out ;  no,  it 's  lit  yet ! 

All  the  better  ;— forward  !  so  ! 
Now  the  hollow  square — one  bit  yet ! 

Here,— I  '11  not  be  blindfold  !  no  ! 
For  your  grief,  my  friends,  I  'm  sorry  ; 

Take  care,  plant  not  low  the  ball ! 
So  to  your  country  God  restore  ye  ; — 

Into  step  now,  conscripts,  fall ! 


THE  OLD  CORPORAL. 


921 


Don't  be  weeping ; 
Don't  be  weeping ; 
Step  be  keeping, 
Keeping,  keeping,  keeping  all ! 


THE  GARRET. 

Le  grcnier. 

A  GAIN  my  youth's  asylum  I  survey, 

Where  Poverty  her  lessons  taught  me  long ; 
I  *d  twenty  years,  a  mistress  fond  and  gay, 
Friends  open  hearted,  and  a  love  of  song. 
Scorning  the  world,  its  follies  and  grey  hairs. 

Rich  in  my  spring-time,  without  cares  or  fears, 
Joyous  and  light,  I  climbed  six  flights  of  stairs. 
Blithe  in  his  garret  is  gay  twenty  years  ! 

Yes,  'tis  a  garret,  know  it  all  who  will. 

There  was  my  bed,  so  hard  and  mean,  and  small ; 
There  was  my  table,  and  I  trace  out  still 

Three  feet  of  verse  I  charcoaled  on  the  wall. 


THE  GARRET,  233 


Rise  up,  ye  pleasures  of  my  bounteous  day  ! 

That  fly  Time's  blow  when  his  swift  wing  he  rears  ; 
How  oft  for  you  I  pawned  my  watch  away. 

Blithe  in  his  garret  is  gay  twenty  years  ! 

But  best  of  all,  there  stood  Lisette  of  yore, 

Pretty  and  piquante  in  her  fresh  trimmed  hat ; 
Oft  did  her  hand,  the  narrow  casement  o'er, 

Suspend  her  shawl  in  lieu  of  blind  thereat. 
My  bed  was  with  her  flowing  gown  arrayed  ; 

Respect,  Love,  those  smoothe  robings  of  my  dear's; 
I  since  have  known  who  for  that  toilet  paid. 

Blithe  in  his  garret  is  gay  twenty  years  ! 

One  day  at  table,  day  of  bounteous  fare, 
The  voice  of  friends  did  in  gay  chorus  run, 

When  here,  a  cry  of  joy  rose  on  the  air, 
"  Marengo's  battle  Bonaparte  has  won  ! " 

The  cannon  roars  ;  another  song  is  made  ; 
Such  dazzling  feats  our  voice  united  cheers  ; 


aa4  THE  GARRET. 


Never  shall  kings  our  glorious  France  invade  I 
Blithe  in  his  garret  is  gay  twenty  jears  1 

Let's  quit  this  roof  where  Fancy's  dreams  are  rife ; 

How  far  the  days  I  so  regret  about ! 
I  would  forego  what  I  have  left  of  life 

For  but  three  days  that  God  here  counted  out* 
Of  beauty,  folly,  pleasure,  love,  to  dream — 

When  like  a  life  an  instant's  space  appears— 
Of  a  long  hope  to  catch  the  bright'ning  gleam, 

Blithe  in  his  garret  is  gay  twenty  years  I 


THE    SMUGGLERS. 

Les  contrabandiers. 

T3LAGUE  on  !  plague  on  !  the  excise. 

We  have  wealth  with  happiness. 

All  the  people  us  caress, 

They  all  our  friendship  prize. 

Yes,  the  people  all  throughout  our  friendship 
prize  ; 

Yes,  the  people  all  throughout,  throughout, 
our  friendship  prize. 

'Tis  midnight ;  here  our  goods  we  *11  land  : 
Men,  packs,  and  horses,  follow  me. 

Come  on  !  keep  watch  on  either  hand  ; 
Charge  every  pistol  and  fusee. 


226  THE  SMUGGLERS, 

The  excisemen  thick  are  'round  ; 

But  lads,  the  lead  *s  not  dear  ; 
And  in  the  dark,  'tis  found 

These  balls  of  ours  see  clear. 

Plague  on  !  plague  on  I  the  excise. 

We  have  wealth  with  happiness. 

All  the  people  us  caress, 

They  all  our  friendship  prize. 

Yes,  the  people  all  throughout  our  friendship 
prize ; 

Yes,  the  people  all  throughout,  throughout, 
our  friendship  prize. 

Ho  comrades  !  *tis  a  noble  life  ; 

Of  it  what  famous  feats  are  told ; 
How  charmed  the  lovely  lass  or  wife, 

When  in  her  apron  rains  the  gold. 
House,  castle,  hut  of  straw, 

To  us  are  opened  wide  ; 


THE  SMUGGLERS.  mf 

If  we  're  condemned  by  law, 
The  people  take  our  side. 

Plague  on  !  plague  on  !  the  excise. 

"We  have  weaHh  with  happiness. 

All  the  people  us  caress, 

They  all  our  friendship  prize. 

Yes,  the  people  all  throughout  our  friendship 

prize. 

Yes,  the  people  all  throughout,  throughout, 
our  friendship  prize. 

We  brave  the  snow,  cold,  storm  and  rain  ; 

Asleep  to  torrent's  roar  we  drop  ; 
Ah  !  what  high  courage  do  we  gain 

Midst  the  pure  air  on  mountain  top* 
Peaks,  with  familiar  tread, 

A  hundred  times  we  greet ;  » 

The  clouds  above  our  head, 

And  death  beneath  our  feet ! 


238  THE  SMUGGLERS. 

Plague  on  !  plague  on  !  the  excise. 

We  have  wealth  with  happiness. 

All  the  people  us  caress, 

They  all  our  friendship  prize. 

Yes,  the  people  all  throughout  our  friendship 
prize; 

Yes,  the  people  all  throughout,  throughout, 
our  friendship  prize. 

Mankind  exchanges  would  maintain, 

But  taxes  barricade  the  ways  ; 
Lets  on, — to  barter  is  our  gain. 

Within  our  hands  the  balance  plays. 
Everywhere  is  God 

Our  sure  protector  found ; 
^       We  plenty  spread  abroad. 

And  wealth  we  scatter  round. 

Plague  on  !  plague  on  !  the  excise.'' 

We  have  wealth  with  happiness.     -  ,^  .■  ,■  , 


THE  SMUGGLERS.  Hf' 


All  the  people  us  caress, 

They  all  our  friendship  prize. 

Yes,  the  people  all  throughout  our  friendship 
prize  ; 

Yes,  the  people  all  throughout,  throughout, 
our  friendship  prize. 

At  sense  our  giddy  rulers  mock  ; 

All  Heavens  ,<?ifts  they  threefold  tax  ; 
They  d  blast  the  fruit  upon  the  stalk, 

And  break  the  workman's  sledge  and  axe. 
With  long  toil,  to  abate 

The  thirst  of  earth  and  man, 
God  doth  a  stream  create  ; 

Of  it  a  pond  they  plan. 

Plague  on  !  plague  on  !  the  excise. 

We  have  wealth  with  happiness. 

All  the  people  us  caress. 

They  all  our  friendship  prize.  ..  iV. 


•3»  THE  SMUGGLERS, 

Yes,  the  people  all  throughout  our  friendship 
prize ; 

Yes,  the  people  all  throughout,  throughout, 
our  friendship  prize. 

What !  of  one  language  and  one  law, 

One  people  bound  by  social  ties, 
They  would  apart  by  treaty  draw, 

And  make  two  realms  of  foes  arise. 
But,  thanks  be  to  our  care, 

This  is  not  worth  their  while ; 
One  fleece  we  spin  and  wear. 

And  o'er  one  wine  we  smile. 

Plague  on  !  plague  on  !  the  excise. 

We  have  wealth  with  happiness. 

All  the  people  us  caress, 

They  all  our  friendship  prize. 

Yes,  the  people  all  throughout  our  friendship 

prize ; 
Yes,  the  people  all  throughout,  throughout, 

our  friendship  prize. 


THE  SMUGGLERS. 


m 


The  birds  that  o'er  the  frontier  fly, 

Ne'er  is  said,  "take  other  laws,"  to  them. 
The  summer  comes  the  trench  to  dry, 

Which  doth  two  monarch's  boundries  hem. 
Upon  our  blood  they  spend 

The  taxes  there  they  reap  ; 
Those  boundries  they  defend, 

We  can  with  ease  o'er  leap. 

Plague  on  !  plague  on  !  the  excise. 

We  have  wealth  with  happiness. 

All  the  people  us  caress, 

They  all  our  friendship  prize. 

Yes,  the  people  all  throughout  our  friendship 
prize ; 

Yes,  the  people  all  throughout,  throughout, 
our  friendship  prize. 

In  our  journyings  we  sing. 
And  the  musket  dread  have  we ; 


1 


2  32  THE  SMUGGLERS. 

We  make  the  mountain  echoes  ring, 
To  rouse  up  slumbering  Liberty. 

When  our  land  'neath  shall  lie 
Some  haughty  neighbor  foe, 

She  '11  dying  to  us  cry, 
Help  I  contrabandists,  ho  ! 

Plague  on  !  plague  on  !  the  excise. 

We  have  wealth  with  happiness. 

All  the  people  us  caress, 

They  all  our  friendship  prize. 

Yes,  the  people  all  throughout  our  friendship 

prize; 
Yes,  the  people  all  throughout,  throughout, 

our  friendship  prize. 


?;..  r 


GOOD  NIGHT! 
Bon-soir. 

[Verses  addressed  to  M.  L^sney,  printer  at  Peronne.  It 
was  to  M .  Laisney  that  Beranger  was  apprenticed  in  his 
youth.  His  master  discerning  the  boy's  talent  assisted  him 
in  his  first  attempts  at  verse-making,  which  the  poet  ever 
afterward  gratefully  remembered.] 

TP\RINK,  my  dear  Laisney,  let  us  drink  again  ! 

How  fast  has  vanished  life's  bright  happy  day ; 
Our  fires  of  youth,  how  distant  do  they  wane  ;     " 

How  with  them  have  our  pleasures  flown  away, 
But  wherefore  then  should  we  feast  on  regret ; 

No,  gaiety  feeds  hope  with  living  light. 
Old  friend  !   even  though  our  day  is  fading,  yet 

We  with  gay  hearts  will  bid  good-night  I 


There  *s  snow  of  fifty  winters  on  thy  head  ; 
The  road  your  feet  have  trod  I  follow  fast ; 


234  GOOD  NIGHT. 


But  in  those  winters  many  a  feast  hath  sped, 
All  was  not  hear  frost  and  the  Northern  blast. 

Could  we  to  better  use  our  youth  have  set ; 
With  life  less  swift  have  had  such  full  delight  ? 

Old  friend  !  even  though  our  day  is  fading,  yet 
We  with  gay  hearts  will  bid  good-night ! 

Thou  wert  my  master  in  the  art  of  verse, 

And  though  eclipsed,  wert  not  of  jealous  stuff ; 
If  the  sole  fruits  which  for  us  God  did  nurse 

Are  songs,  those  fruits  are  sureiy  sweet  enough. 
Within  our  strains  the  past  new  birth  doth  get ; 

Illusion's  mirror  for  us  glitters  bright. 
Old  friend  !  even  though  our  day  is  fading,  yet 

We  with  gay  hearts  will  bid  good-night ! 

Let  *s  take  our  rest,  the  Love's,  without  a  doubt, 
For  whom,  of  old,  we  've  journeyed  at  our  best, 

All  cry  to  us,  if  met  upon  the  route, 

"  Go  you  to  sleep,  the  sun  hath  sunk  to  rest." 


GOOD  NIGHT.  235 


But  Friendship  comes,  though  thickest  shades  beset, 
To  cast  her  lamplight  on  our  fading  sight. 

Old  friend  !  even  though  our  day  is  fading,  yet 
We  with  gay  hearts  will  bid  good-night  I 


MY  TOMB. 

Mon  tonibeau. 

"X  T  THAT  !  whilst  I  'm  well,  to  make  for  me  a  tomb ! 

Before  my  death  at  vast  expense  to  go  ; 
Foolishness,  friends,  give  no  such  folly  room  ; 

Leave  to  the  great  the  pagentry  of  woe. 
The  price  of  brass  or  stone  would  buy  a  dress 

Too  fine  for  a  dead  beggar  to  assume  ; 
Let 's  buy,  instead,  bright  wine  of  joyfulness  ; 

Let 's  gaily  drink  the  silver  of  my  tomb  ! 

To  build  me  such  a  mausoleum  fine, 

'Twould  cost  you  twenty  thousand  francs  or  more. 
In  a  rich  vale,  beneath  a  cloudless  shine,       ' 

Let 's,  gay  recluses,  six  months  joy  explore. 


MV  TOMB.  237 


Concerts  and  balls,  where  Beauty  weaves  her  spell, 
Such  pleasures  even  a  castle  would  illume  ; 

I  *11  run  the  risk  of  loving  life  too  well : 
Let 's  gaily  eat  the  silver  of  my  tomb  ! 

Though  young  my  mistress,  I  grow  old  at  last ; 

I  've  need  to  buy  her  trinkets  of  all  kinds  ; 
A  golden  glitter  sweetens  a  long  fast, 

Longchamps  bear  witness,  where  all  Paris  shines. 
Something  to  your  fair  dame  is  owed  by  you ; 

A  cashmere  shawl  would  keep  her  love  in  bloom. 
For  life  upon  a  heart  so  leal  and  true 

Let 's  gaily  spend  the  silver  of  my  tomb  ! 

No,  friends  of  mine  !  the  drama  of  the  shades 
I  would  not  see  v/ithin  a  box  of  state. 

Who  comes  so  poor  and  pale,  whose  eye-sight  fades  ? 
He  soon  must  die,  ah,  happy  be  his  fate  ! 

This  dotard,  whom  his  wallet  tires  apace, 
Should  first  the  curtain  see  raised  on  the  gloom  ; 


238  MV  TOMB. 


Him,  in  the  pit,  to  keep  for  me  a  place, 
Let 's  gaily  give  the  silver  of  my  tomb  ! 

What  reck  I,  that  my  name  upon  the  stone, 

Some  future  Doctor  may  to  light  recall  ; 
Better  to  breathe  in  life  the  perfume  thrown 

From  flowers  promised  to  my  funeral  pall. 
Posterity,  who  never  may  be  born. 

To  search  me  out,  ne'er  thou  thy  torch  illume ; 
Wise  man,  I  'm  known  my  window  forth  in  scorn 

To  gaily  throw  the  silver  of  my  tomb  ! 


MY   COAT. 
Mon  habit. 

C  ERVE  me  yet  well,  poor  coat,  that  still  I  love  ! 

Together,  we  old  age  explore  ; 
Myself  hath  brushed  thee  these  ten  years  above ; 

Even  Socrates  had  done  no  more  ! 
When  fate  hath  on  thy  well  worn  list, 

To  struggles  new,  delivered  thee, 
Like  me,  in  stout  philosophy  resist. 
Old  friend  of  mine,  we  will  not  parted  be  ! 

I  'm  thinking, —for  my  memory  seldom  fails,— 

Of  the  first  day  I  put  thee  on. 
It  was  my  f^te  ;  to  swell  our  glory's  sails, 

The  songs  of  friends  did  on  thee  run. 


940  My  COAT, 


Thy  shabbiness,  of  honor's  hue, 
Ne'er  from  their  arms  doth  banish  me. 

They  're  making  fetes  to  grace  us  still  anew. 
Old  friend  ol  mine,  we  will  not  parted  be  ! 

Thy  patch  behind  with  favor  I  espy  ! 

That  also,  is  a  memory  sweet. 
Feigning,  one  eve,  the  tender  Lise  to  fly, 

I  felt  her  hand  my  stay  intreat. 
And  thou  wert  rent !  and  this  outrage 

Bound  me  to  her,  I  might  not  flee ; 
Lisette,  three  days,  did  in  that  work  engage  1 

Old  friend  of  mine,  we  will  not  parted  be  ! 

Have  I  with  musk  and  amber  dashed  thee  o'er, 
Which  the  glass  primping  fops  exhale  ? 

Wort  thou  e'er  seen  at  ante-chamber  door, 
Exposed  to  high-born  jest  and  rail  ? 

For  bits  of  ribbon  to  control, 
Long  was  all  France  at  enmity. 


MV  COAT.  241 


,     The  field  flower  is  glinting  from  thy  button-hole  ! 
Old  friend  of  mine,  we  will  not  parted  be  ! 

Fear  thou  no  more  those  days  of  courses  vain, 

When  aye  our  fate  did  equal  lie. — 
Those  blended  days  of  pleasure  and  of  pain, 

Mingled  with  rain  and  sunny  sky, 
Methinks,  at  no  far  distant  day, 

There  '11  be  no  need  of  coat  for  me. 
Stay  yet !  together  we  will  take  our  way. 

Old  friend  of  mine,  we  will  not  parted  be  ! 


THE  POOR  WOMAN. 

La  pauvre  femme. 

T  T  snows  !  it  snows  !  and  there  before  the  church 

An  old  woman  prays  upon  her  knees  ; 
The  wind,  gulfed  in  her  rags,  doth  round  her  search  ; 

To  us  for  bread  she  makes  her  pleas. 
Alone,  to  Notre  Dame,  o'er  crutch  inclined, 

Winter  and  summer  goeth  she  ; 
She 's  blind,  alas  !  the  poor  old  woman's  blind  ; 

Ah  !  let  us  lend  her  chanty  I 

Dost  thou  know  who  was  this  form  bent  with  age,  ^ 
With  wan,  pale  face,  so  pinched  and  lean  ? 

She  was  the  marvel  of  a  gorgeous  stage, 
In  Paris  reigned  a  ballad  queen. 


THE  POOR   WOMAN.  9^ 

The  young,  whom  oft  she  moved  to  weep  or  smile, 

Enraptured,  did  her  beauty  see. 
How  often  did  her  charms  their  dreams  beguile  ; 

Ah  \  let  us  lend  her  charity  ! 

How  oft,  when  from  the  stage  she  swept  along 

Behind  her  prancing  courser's  feet, 
She  heard  the  cheering  of  the  ravished  throng 

Towards  her  on  the  night  wind  fleet. 
To  lift  her  down,  standing  her  car  before. 

Bowing  around  voluptuously,  '^ 

How  many  rivals  waited  at  her  door  ; 

Ah !  let  us  lend  her  charity  ! 

How  every  art,  her  stately  palace  knew, 

Their  crowns  for  her  once  wove  ! 
What  crystals,  bronzes,  columns,  one  might  view, 

Tributes  from  love  to  love  ! 
What  faithful  Muses  kept  her  banquets  all. 

The  while  her  wine  flowed  prosperously  I 


944  THE  POOR   WOMAN. 

The  sparrows  build  in  every  palace  wall ; 
Ah  !  let  us  lend  her  charity  ! 

Ah,  fell  reverse  !  one  day  did  sickness  close 

Her  eyes,  her  voice  made  hoarse  and  mean, 
And  soon,  alone  and  poor,  she  begging  goes, 

Where  her  these  twenty  years  I  've  seen. 
No  hand  more  graceful  blessed  the  needy  wretch, 

Nor  gave  more  gold  with  heart  more  free, 
Than  that  hand  which  she  hesitates  to  stretch  ; 

Ah !  let  us  lend  her  charity  ! 

Ah  !  pity,  grief, — the  cold  redoubled  feeds 

Upon  her  trembling  limbs  the  while  ; 
Her  hand,  benumbed,  can  scarcely  hold  the  beads 

At  which  she  once  did  gaily  smile. 
If  *neath  such  ills  still  soft  her  heart  appears, 

If  it  can  nourish  piety, — 
That  she  may  yet  have  faith  that  Heaven  hears, 

Ah  !  let  us  lend  her  charity  t 


THE  WANDERING  JEW. 
Le  Juif  Errant, 

A    WEARY  wanderer  to  renew, 

Reach,  Christian,  water  from  thy  door  ; 
I  am,  I  am  the  Wandering  Jew, 

Whom  a  whirlwind  hurries  evermore. 
Without  old  age,  opprest  by  life, 

The  world's  end  is  my  only  dream, 
Ever  is  hope  each  evening  rife. 

But  e'er  comes  morning's  sun-bright  gleam. 
Fore'er,  fore'er 

Turns  the  world  whereon  I  fare, 
Fore'er,  fore'er,  fore'er,  fore'er. 

Alas  !  for  eighteen  ages  past 
I  've  t/od  o'er  Greek  and  Roman  dust ; 


246  THE  WANDERING  JEW, 

O'er  thousand  states,  in  ruin  cast, 
Doth  me  the  fearful  whirlwind  thrust. 

I  *ve  seen  good  growing  come  to  naught, 
Calamities  grow  vast  of  size  ; 

With  greater  than  old  world  life  fraught, 
I  've  seen  from  waves  two  worlds  arise 

Fore'er,  fore'er 

Turns  the  world  whereon  I  fare, 

Fore'er,  fore'er,  fore'er,  fore'er. 


I  *m  doomed  to  change  by  God's  decree  ; 

I  am  in  love  with  all  that  dies  ; 
Whene'er  a  roof  would  shelter  me. 

The  whirlwind  sudden  with  me  flies. 
Such  pittance  as  I  can  command 

Is  sought  by  many  a  needy  wretch. 
Who  has  not  time  to  clasp  the  hand. 

Which  I,  in  passing,  love  to  stretch. 
Fore'er,  fore'er        ^  . 


THE  WANDERING  JEW.  ^ 


Turns  the  world  whereon  I  fare, 
Fore'er,  fore'er,  fore'er,  fore'er. 

At  foot  of  flowering  shrubs,  alone,—  ] 

On  the  turfed  borders  of  the  mere, 
If  o'er  my  woes  I  cease  to  moan, 

I  hear  the  whirlwind  roaring  near. 
Ah  !  vengeful  Heaven  !  why  not  allow 

One  instant  passed  beneath  the  shade ; 
Scarce  could  eternity  serve  now 

For  rest  from  such  a  wandering  made. 
Fore'er,  fore'er 

"turns  the  world  whereon  I  fare, 
Fore'er,  fore'er,  fore'er,  fore'er. 

How,  from  the  children,  glad  and  bright, 
Gleams  the  mirage  of  youth  on  age  ! 

If  e'er  on  them  I  feast  my  sight, 
The  whirlwind  blows  with  double  rage. 


948  THE  WANDERING  JEW, 

Old  men,  at  such  a  price  awhile, 
Dare  ye,  for  my  long  life  to  lust? 

Those  children,  upon  whom  I  smile, 
My  foot  shall  sweep  across  their  dust  1 

Fore'er,  fore'er 

Turns  the  world  whereon  I  fare, 

Fore'er,  fore'er,  fore'er,  fore'er. 


Those  walls,  where  I  was  born  of  yore, 

If  I  should  yet  some  trace  descry. 
Should  I  persist  to  look  them  o'er, 

**  On  ! "  doth  to  me  the  whirlwind  cry. 
*'  On  ! "  and  its  voice  still  in  mine  ear, 

Cries,  "  stand  !  while  all  around  thee  falls  ; 
No  place  thy  sires  keep  for  thee  here. 

No  place  in  their  sepulchral  halls  ! " 
Fore'er,  fore'er 

Turns  the  world  whereon  I  fare, 
Fore'er,  fore'er,  fore'er,  fore'er. 


THE  WANDERING  JEW,  249 

I  outraged  with  inhuman  jest 

The  Man-God,  as  he  breathed  his  last. 
But  'neath  my  feet  the  road  is  pressed  ; 

Farewell !  the  whirlwind  hurries  fast. 
All  ye  to  charity  remiss, 

Now  tremble  at  my  torture  strange ; 
Not  his  divinity  it  is. 

But  human  wrongs  he  doth  avenge. 
Fore'er,  fore'er 

Turns  the  world  whereon  I  fare, 
Fore'er,  fore'er,  fore'er,  fore'er. 


;  i 


FAREWELL  SONG! 
Adieu  chansons  / 

TV  yr  Y  floral  crown  to  freshen  and  restore, 

Some  theme  to  sing,  bright,  tender,  witty, 
wise, 

I  *d  lately  gone,  whey  that  fay  came  once  more, 
Did  at  the  good  old  tailor's  soothe  my  cries  ; 

'*  Winter,"  said  she,  "breathes  on  thy  head  her  frost. 
Find  shelter  for  thy  evenings  long  and  cold, 
Thou  who  hast  sung  but  when  the  tempest  rolled, 

Find  'st  twenty  years  of  strife  thy  voice  exhaust." 

Then  songs  adieu  !  my  brow  is  bald  and  lined  ; 

The  bird  is  hushed  ;  loud  roars  the  northern  wind  ! 

"  Those  days  are  far,"  pursued  she,  "when  thy  soul 
Could  as  a  keyboard  modulate  thy  note  ; 

When  gaiety,  lithe,  rapid  flame,  did  roll. 
And  made  on  darkened  heaven  its  lightning  float. 


FAREWELL  SONG/  951 

With  shadows  is  the  shrunk  horizon  frayed  ; 

Thy  friends  long  laughter  now  hath  ceased  to  flow ; 

How  many  gone  before  !  they  *re  lying  low  ; 
Alas  !  Lisette  herself  is  but  a  shade." 
Then  songs  adieu  !  my  brow  is  bald  and  lined  ; 
The  bird  is  hushed  ;  loud  roars  the  northern  wind  ! 

"  To  fate  be  thankful !    Thy  melodious  song, 
The  lowest  ranks  of  a  great  race  rehearse 

The  tune  which  flies  the  ravished  ear  along, 
To  the  most  ignorant  hath  blown  thy  verse. 

Your  orators  the  realm  of  letters  hold  ; 
Thou,  with  proud  front  conspiring  'gainst  the  kings, 
Awoke  the  voice,  and  married  on  the  strings 

The  lyre's  accents  with  the  airs  of  old." 

Then  songs  adieu  !  my  brow  is  bald  and  lined  ; 

The  bird  is  hushed  ;  loud  roars  the  northern  wind  ! 


i< 


Thy  pointed  darts  the  throne  itself  did  jar, 
And  bounding  back,  were  gathered  up  as  fast ; 


353 


FAREIVELL  SONG/ 


The  people,  whom  thou  loved  'st,  from  near  and  far, 
Their  flying  chorus  at  that  mark  recast. 

That  throne,  when  it  its  thunders  dared  to  shake, 
Did  in  three  days  'neath  rusty  muskets  fall ; 
For  all  the  shots  that  bored  its  velvet  pall, 

Thy  muse  what  store  of  powder  did  she  make  1 " 

Then  songs  adieu  !  my  brow  is  bald  and  lined  ; 

The  bird  is  hushed  ;  loud  roars  the  northern  wind  ! 


"  Noble  thy  part  in  that  great  day  appears ; 

Thou  turnd'st  from  booty  rapine's  eye  of  rage  ; 
Their  memory,  crowning  thy  triumphal  years, 

May  satisfy  thee  if  content  with  age. 
To  coming  men  of  that  great  story  say  ; 

Warn  from  the  rocks,  their  venturous  vessel  guide, 

And  if  some  day  they  be  of  France  the  pride, 
Warm  thy  old  age  beneath  their  glory's  ray." 
Then  songs  adieu !  my  brow  is  bald  and  lined  ; 
The  bird  is  hushed ;  loud  roars  the  northern  wind  ! 


FAREWELL  SONG/ 


253 


Yes,  my  good  fairy — to  the  poor  bards  door, 
Thou'st  in  good  time  retreating  note  addressed  ; 

For  friend,  soon,  'neath  the  thatch  that  roofs  me  o'er, 
I  '11  have  oblivion,  sire  and  son  of  rest. 

But,  at  my  death,  those  can  our  struggle  tell, 
Old  Frenchmen,  they  will  say  with  moistened  eye, 
"  That  star  at  eve  hath  gleamed  in  heaven  high, 

God  put  it  out  long  time  before  it  fell." 

Then  songs  adieu  !  my  brow  is  bald  and  lined ; 

The  bird  is  hushed ;  loud  roars  the  northern  wind  I 


V  ENVOI. 

1\ Raster  of  song l  upon  thy  silvern  lyrt 
I  hang  this  latest  garland  of  gfeen  bayst 

Culled  whilst  I  wandered  on  Parnassian  ways. 
Earth  bringer  of  the  true  Promethean  fire  I 
Accept  the  hand^  that  proudly  would  aspire ^ 

With  wreathed  tendrils  of  the  southern  vine 

Twining  a  blush  of  English  eglantine^ — 
To  crown  the  peer  of  all  our  lyric  choir » 

m 

If  I  have''labored,  labored  not  in  vain^ 

King  of  the  chanson  !  to  uncage  thy  rhyme^ 

Beating  its  bars  within  the  Gallic  tongue^ — 

//  /  have  faithfully  and  duly  sung 

Its  wingld  notes ^  nor  marred  their  crystal  strain^ 
My  borrowed  song  should  make  my  muse  sublime. 


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